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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26034880">Hospital Stay</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus'>PericulaLudus</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Hurt/Comfort Bingo 2018 [16]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Musketeers (2014)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Brotherhood, Friendship, Gen, Hanging, Injury Recovery, Mass Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Psychological Trauma, Serious Injuries, War</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:01:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>25,543</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26034880</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Hurt/Comfort Bingo 2018 [16]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1078923</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>57</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Careful.“ Athos bit his tongue. A pointless remark. Aramis wouldn’t be able to hear him, nor see that he was speaking, given that Athos was hovering behind him on the stairs.</p>
<p>“He is being careful.” Porthos let out a pained grunt now that he had opened his mouth.</p>
<p>Aramis’ arm tightened around his chest. He paused in their ascent.</p>
<p>“It’s fine.” Porthos patted Aramis’ shoulder where he had draped his uninjured arm over it. They took another step in their agonisingly slow three-legged race.</p>
<p>It wasn’t fine. But there wasn’t much of an alternative. Porthos had insisted on walking rather than being carried and Aramis had agreed. How would they have carried him without harming his back further?</p>
<p>Not that this was any better. Athos frowned at the speck of red that had appeared on the bandages. Aramis’ sutures did not seem to hold. He probably should not have taken care of Porthos himself. He was injured and on top of that he was emotionally compromised.</p>
<p>Athos might have to find a surgeon in the morning.</p>
<p>For the moment, he had to make sure nobody fell. Aramis had refused to let him help, which had only served to worry Porthos. Porthos worried for him and his sprained ankle. Porthos, who had soaked every cloth in the house with his blood. Ridiculous. It wasn’t like Aramis was steady on his feet either. He clearly had issues with his balance.</p>
<p>Fortunately, the owners of this house had had the good sense to equip their stairs with sturdy bannisters long before the regiment had requisitioned the place. They had probably not planned on those bannisters being used by three musketeers to drag themselves to the first floor, but Athos appreciated the foresight. Not that he was dragging himself. Holding on to both handrails was merely a precautionary measure in case one of them slipped.</p>
<p>How high was the ceiling in this place? Not very, nothing compared to the manor at Pinon, but why then were there so many steps?</p>
<p>Porthos was flagging. Aramis took more and more of his weight with every step, the way to their room stretching out before them. When they finally reached it, Porthos sat down heavily on the bed, breathing hard.</p>
<p>“I think… I need to lie down,” he said, looking distinctly faint.</p>
<p>Before Athos could catch Aramis’ attention to mime to him what Porthos had said, Porthos proceeded to put his words into action. Aramis reacted instantly, pulling aside the blanket and guiding Porthos’ head to the pillow. Porthos pressed his eyes together and panted, his face grey with pain and exhaustion. Another second and he would have passed out.</p>
<p>Aramis kept a hand on Porthos’ uninjured right shoulder. Athos wasn’t sure who he was reassuring with that touch. Maybe he was feeling Porthos’ breath. Athos grabbed a quill and scribbled a quick message.</p>
<p>
  <em>Rapid breathing, panting. Occasional pained groans.</em>
</p>
<p>Aramis nodded his understanding and gave him a small, joyless smile. Athos tried to look reassuring. He would be Aramis’ ears for as long as it took, but he couldn’t help but wonder… too many questions, too much that could go wrong. But that was not his immediate concern. For now, the focus had to be on Porthos.</p>
<p> <em>Need anything?</em></p>
<p>Aramis looked at him, then back at Porthos. He took his time. Brushed Porthos’ sweat-drenched curls. So gentle. So affected by all that had happened. A little over a year had passed since the last time Porthos had been brought close to death by their duty. This all seemed strangely familiar. After all the changes they had made, they were back at square one.</p>
<p>Wounds obtained in the service of their own principles hurt no less than those incurred following the cardinal’s orders.</p>
<p>Their duty had become no less dangerous. That had been easy to forget over the winter. They’d had a good, quiet winter back in Paris. They were well-rested and well-fed.</p>
<p>And now… the Siege of Privas. One siege was all it took.</p>
<p>Only two weeks to take Privas, but it didn’t feel too different from La Rochelle. They were still small moving parts of the colossus that was the royal army, that many-headed hydra. They had made their decision. This had been it. Staying, fighting, and being killed in the line of duty.</p>
<p>Aramis shook his head. No, he didn’t need anything. But he did not look happy either. Not that Athos expected him to be happy, given the circumstances. Of course he didn’t. But he could tell something was wrong.</p>
<p>
  <em>What can I do?</em>
</p>
<p>Aramis shook his head again. Athos gave him a withering glare. Aramis weathered it for a moment, but before long he looked down at his hands.</p>
<p>
  <em>I won’t hear if</em>
</p>
<p>He hesitated, quill in hand. Of course. If Porthos was in any distress during what remained of the night, Aramis would be oblivious. Well. Aramis would not sit there staring at Porthos for the rest of the night. He had done quite enough and needed some rest.</p>
<p>
  <em>Sleep next to him. You will feel if anything is amiss.</em>
</p>
<p>Because they both knew that <em>next to him</em> meant more or less on top of Porthos. Aramis’ need for physical contact did not lessen in sleep, which made it dangerous for them to do this on the road. But Athos would be their ears and eyes. Would make sure that no injury was aggravated, no harm was done to either of them.</p>
<p>Athos took off his weapons and put them in the corner. Even the small movement smarted. He would be glad to put his feet up for a few hours.</p>
<p>Aramis still hovered over Porthos instead of settling down for some much-needed sleep. Blown up twice and deafened, he had then played surgeon to Porthos and medic to the rest of the regiment. If anyone deserved to lie down, it was Aramis. Athos lifted the blanket and held it out, motioning for Aramis to please not make this difficult. Finally, Aramis plastered himself to Porthos’ uninjured side.</p>
<p>With a sigh, Athos retrieved a second blanket for himself. Aramis’ eyes followed him.</p>
<p>Athos shook his head. In lieu of writing he mimed his request like one might with a child. Two hands at the side of his face. Sleep. Please.</p>
<p>Aramis bit his lip.</p>
<p>Athos dragged over the sole chair and put it a foot or two away from the bed. Wrapped in his blanket, he propped up his feet on the thin mattress and stared at Aramis.</p>
<p>Aramis still looked sceptical.</p>
<p>Athos pointed at his eyes with two fingers. Then at Porthos’ face with the same two fingers.</p>
<p>Understanding dawned on Aramis’ face.</p>
<p>Of course Athos wouldn’t sleep that night. He’d lost his friends in the melee earlier when they needed him most. The least he could do was to keep watch over them now.</p>
<p>Despite everything, Aramis slept soundly. He reassured himself a few dozen times that Porthos was indeed resting comfortably, but when he finally allowed himself to drift off, he didn’t stir for the remainder of the night. The poor man had to be worn out.</p>
<p>Porthos was usually the most solid sleeper of their group, though Athos knew he did not pose much competition in that regard unless he had completely drowned himself in wine. But that night, Porthos woke frequently. He was unable to get comfortable and in some pain, but he did not complain and did not ask for assistance, so Athos saw no reason to interfere. However, it worried him that Aramis did not seem to notice. He was usually so attuned to the slightest hint of distress.</p>
<p>Was there more behind the deafness?</p>
<p>Head injuries were dangerous, Aramis always said. He had been thrown to the ground by the first explosion. Had he hit his head as well?</p>
<p>Athos tried to remember if there had been anything unusual. The deafness clouded all his memories of the evening. That had been the obvious focus for his attention, not to mention Porthos’ grave injury. He had to admit that he hadn’t paid particular attention to any other potential issues Aramis might have had. He had seemed normal enough, had looked after Porthos and then all the other men. But this wasn’t normal, now.</p>
<p>That entire night, for all that it looked like any other, was not normal.</p>
<p>It wasn’t normal either that Porthos woke before Aramis, the one who usually rose with the sun and with an infuriatingly cheerful disposition. But Porthos gave the smallest of smiles amidst all his grimaces of pain when he noticed Aramis by his side, so Athos kept his peace. He would keep an eye on Aramis, but not at the expense of worrying Porthos.</p>
<p>“How are you feeling?” Aramis asked, once he had woken.</p>
<p>“Tired.” Porthos yawned. The movement turned into a scowl, which Aramis couldn’t see. Athos registered that as well.</p>
<p>Aramis’ hand snaked over Porthos’ head and onto his forehead. “No wonder,” he said. “Bit of a fever. Thank God it’s not too high.”</p>
<p>“I’m always warm,” Porthos said. Quite rightly so. He was a furnace, which was rather helpful during cold winter nights when they were camping or on duty far from a fireplace. Athos tried to mime his sentence back to Aramis.</p>
<p>“It’s not a bad thing,” Aramis said. “Means that your body is healing.”</p>
<p>It wasn’t cold, but Aramis still shivered when he got out of bed. He knelt in front of Porthos.</p>
<p>“I can’t hear,” he said, enunciating very clearly. “You need to look at me when you speak and if there’s anything urgent you need to tell Athos.”</p>
<p>Porthos had either forgotten or never realised that Aramis couldn’t hear. An easy thing to miss given his own condition. Emotions chased one another across his face. Worry dominated. Athos had had a whole night to think it through and that was still his main emotion. This deafness wouldn’t kill Aramis, but it might well end their life together. And that was not an option. Athos knew he could easily speak for all three of them in that regard.</p>
<p>Athos sighed when he stood on his injured foot. Only a sprain, but it still hurt.</p>
<p>“Take it easy,” Porthos said. Athos did not grace that with a response. He did not need the sympathy of someone who had barely escaped death a few hours earlier. He hobbled over to the small bureau with all the dignity he could muster.</p>
<p>He dipped the quill in ink and poised it over the paper before he spoke.</p>
<p>“How is the pain?”</p>
<p>He beckoned Aramis over to watch him take notes.</p>
<p>“Bad,” Porthos said.</p>
<p>“Details.”</p>
<p>“It feels like I’ve got a massive hole in my back.”</p>
<p>“Stop stating the obvious.”</p>
<p>Porthos took a deep breath and grimaced. “I can breathe fine, but not too deeply. Feels like I’m ripping myself in two if I do.”</p>
<p><em>Stitches holding?</em> Athos added to his notes.</p>
<p>Aramis frowned.</p>
<p>“I can move my hand.” Porthos did so. “Elbow’s fine and shou—” He broke off. “God damn it that hurts.”</p>
<p>
  <em>Can move shoulder but very severe pain.</em>
</p>
<p>“I’m sore all over,” Porthos continued. “And it’s embarrassing to get stabbed in the back. I wasn’t running from anyone.”</p>
<p>“We know that,” Athos said. “Everyone knows that.”</p>
<p>
  <em>Worries about how injury is perceived, as preoccupied with that as with physical pain.</em>
</p>
<p>Aramis nodded.</p>
<p>“You need rest,” Aramis said.</p>
<p>Athos put a finger to his lips and Aramis lowered his voice a little. “I need to change the dressing on that wound and see if there’s infection.”</p>
<p>
  <em>Bled through the dressing last night, but no further bleeding while he slept.</em>
</p>
<p>Aramis took the quill from him. <em>Warm water, my medical bag, bandages, food for all of us.</em></p>
<p>
  <em>Anything for your ears?</em>
</p>
<p>Aramis shrugged and turned back to the bed to kneel in front of Porthos again, leaving Athos with his list.</p>
<p> At least they both ate with satisfactory appetite. Then again, they had all been through a lot since their dinner the night before. So much had happened and was still happening now. Aramis kept touching his ears and frowning. Porthos said very little. Athos, unusually, had to carry the conversation. He reported on how the others were doing. Aramis cared because of his role as a medic, Porthos cared because of his big heart. Both were relieved to hear that every musketeer was accounted for and any wounds they had looked to be healing well for the time being.</p>
<p>“How do we always end up in such a state?” Porthos asked. “Nobody else does.”</p>
<p>“Others die,” Athos said. “We get ourselves into the worst of scraps and we get ourselves out of them.”</p>
<p>Porthos chuckled, then winced. “Wish there were some nicer awards for that.”</p>
<p>It was only half the truth, of course. They didn’t have to be there at all. Others had joined the fray at Captain Tréville’s command. They had also sought to prevent slaughter, but they had not pitted themselves against half the royal army, as well as all the defenders. Captain Tréville calculated the risks he took with his men. Athos did, too. But his arithmetic was different. Because he knew he could risk more with these two or because he was callous? Either way, that different arithmetic meant they had been hurt.</p>
<p>Porthos gritted his teeth and hissed when Aramis removed his bandages. Athos let him hold his hand for reassurance. He kept a close eye on both of them, ready to translate when necessary.</p>
<p>There was a fair amount of blood. The wound had to look a mess; stitches torn out of the flesh. They should not have let Porthos walk up the stairs. Torn stitches made it very difficult to close a wound again, Aramis always said.</p>
<p>The wound was surprisingly tidy once Aramis had washed the dried blood away.</p>
<p>It was also gaping wide open.</p>
<p>Athos grabbed Aramis’ shoulder and shook him. “You forgot to stitch it!”</p>
<p>He should have checked the night before. He should never have left their side. He should not have made an injured Aramis shoulder the burden of caring for Porthos alone. He didn’t blame Aramis, of course not. He had to have hit his head. Aramis never forgot. Not medical things. As scatter brained as he could be, he would never forget to suture a wound.</p>
<p> “We need to call a surgeon.” Athos tried to calm himself and keep his voice even. It would not do to become aggravated now. “Leave him for now. It doesn’t look too bad yet. It will be fine.”</p>
<p>Not too bad. Or at least he had to believe that. In all honesty, the area around the wound seemed red and swollen, but he had to say something reassuring. Time to make up for his failures now. He should have gotten Aramis support much earlier. He had failed both of his friends.</p>
<p>He made to leave, but Porthos did not let go of his hand.</p>
<p>“He doesn’t forget that sort of stuff.” Porthos’ words were slurred with pain. He had spent a night with a gaping wound in his back and Athos had ignored his obvious discomfort the entire time. He could have ended this earlier, maybe spared Porthos pain.</p>
<p>“I don’t understand!” Aramis shouted.</p>
<p>His eyes were wide with fear.</p>
<p>Athos took a deep breath. That was the first issue to be solved. Porthos had been in that state for hours now. A few more minutes would hopefully not make matters worse. He took up the quill again, with Porthos finally letting him go.</p>
<p>
  <em>You are not to blame.</em>
</p>
<p>Aramis hovered at his shoulder and did not look reassured in the least.</p>
<p>
  <em>You forgot to stitch his wound.</em>
</p>
<p>Aramis hadn’t noticed yet. How badly had he been hit? How rattled was he to not realise even now?</p>
<p>Aramis laughed.</p>
<p>He dragged Athos back to the bed and pointed at the wound.</p>
<p>“It’s very deep,” he said. Athos stared into the depths of that horrible gash straight into the innards of Porthos’ shoulder. Very deep indeed. And in desperate need of suturing. Athos expected a glimpse of white bone at any moment.</p>
<p>“It needs sutures.” He mimed his words as he spoke.</p>
<p>Aramis shook his head. “It’ll heal on its own.”</p>
<p>“You stitch wounds so they don’t bleed as much.” Athos pointed at all the soiled bandages. “Blood loss kills.”</p>
<p>Aramis’ words. Over and over again he told them. Don’t hide your wounds. Wounds need suturing. Blood loss kills.</p>
<p>“I didn’t forget,” Aramis said. “Look.”</p>
<p>He squeezed the wound, making Porthos growl in pain, fingers digging into the bed. Thick, yellow liquid oozed out of the cut.</p>
<p>“If this stays in, it’ll fester,” Aramis said. “And I can’t clean a wound that I’ve sewn shut.”</p>
<p>Blood followed the pus and Porthos panted. This did not look like good wound treatment to Athos at all. Blood should stay in the body.</p>
<p>“Hold him down.”</p>
<p>Athos hated this. Always did. With either one of them. But he followed Aramis’ directions. Before he had even really thought about it, he had a hand on each of Porthos’ arms. The muscles shifted under his fingers as Aramis got to work. Porthos grunted and cursed as Aramis cleaned his wound.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” Aramis said so softly that Athos wasn’t sure he realised he was saying it out loud. “I’m sorry, but I have to.”</p>
<p>Athos had to apply more of his strength as Porthos bucked up beneath him. He leaned his weight onto Porthos, which wasn’t the easiest endeavour with the awkward placement of the wound. Each breath rumbled out of Porthos like a heavy cart on a gravel path. Athos could not imagine how bad the pain had to be as Aramis cleaned out his wound. Having somebody dig back into a fresh wound…</p>
<p>The wound looked aggravated when Aramis was done, redder than ever and definitely swollen now. Athos let go when Porthos sagged down onto the bed, still breathing heavily. He wiped sweat from his face.</p>
<p>“Alright?” Aramis asked softly.</p>
<p>Athos nodded. Like he had any right to be exhausted.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” Aramis said.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” Athos said. He could not believe that Aramis would hurt Porthos deliberately, so this had to be necessary. And if it was necessary, then Aramis was sure to do a good job of it.</p>
<p>Porthos blindly reached a hand back and finally caught Aramis’ sleeve. “Thank you,” he gasped out, fingers moving down Aramis’ arm until he could squeeze his hand.</p>
<p>“I have to bind the wound again,” Aramis said in his odd, unevenly pitched voice. “The two edges of the wound need to be close together so they can heal.”</p>
<p>It hurt. Porthos was never one to suffer in silence and they always told him that was a good thing. Whenever they discussed it, they all agreed that they should each take a leaf out of his book in that regard, but that did not make it any easier to bear when they knew they were the ones causing that pain. Holding the wound together, wrapping it tight… while Athos understood what Aramis wanted to achieve, it did not make it easier to carry out.</p>
<p>Finally, it was done. Porthos still breathed heavily and Athos still felt like a villain, but everything looked better now. Looks mattered, to Porthos more than most. Aramis cleared away his medical supplies, as well as the dishes from their breakfast.</p>
<p>Athos sat next to Porthos’ head and ran his fingers through his hair. Not as good as Aramis’ reassurances, but he had learned that any physical contact, even his clumsy attempts, was calming and reassuring in difficult times.</p>
<p>Porthos’ eyes blinked open. “How is he?” he asked.</p>
<p>Athos looked at Aramis where he was bent over his medical bag. How was he, really?</p>
<p>“He seems to know what he’s doing,” he said.</p>
<p>Porthos smiled. “Course he does.”</p>
<p>Course he does. It was that simple, wasn’t it? So easy for Porthos to trust.</p>
<p>“I know about these things,” Aramis said, turning around.</p>
<p>“You can hear?”</p>
<p>Aramis rubbed his ears and frowned. “Very badly. Like I’m stood under a waterfall.”</p>
<p>He could hear. He was getting better. He might be fine. He might still be able to be a musketeer. This mightn’t be the end. Athos felt lightheaded with relief.</p>
<p>Porthos grinned from ear to ear. “They can’t get you down,” he said. “You’ll always come back.”</p>
<p>“You have to speak up,” Aramis said, coming closer. “I’m an old man now.”</p>
<p>“My favourite old man,” Porthos said.</p>
<p>Aramis had heard that. He couldn’t hide his smile. He sat down next to Porthos, burying his fingers in his hair.</p>
<p>“I know about these things,” Aramis repeated.</p>
<p>“Of course,” Athos said. Did he believe it? He trusted Aramis with his life every time he got hurt and even more often in battle. He had to trust Aramis’ word. He’d done so for years. But in this instance, he couldn’t quite suppress his concern. Despite his best efforts, that internal struggle must have shown on his face.</p>
<p>“I don’t know about illnesses,” Aramis said. “But I know about this.”</p>
<p>The pneumonia and Aramis’ panic. All that fear and helplessness. Illness. They were musketeers. They didn’t know about illnesses.</p>
<p>“Much more experience.”</p>
<p>Aramis chuckled. “Exactly. Cuts and gunshots and everything… I know about those.”</p>
<p>“You really do,” Porthos said.</p>
<p>Aramis shushed him. “You should be resting.”</p>
<p>“I apologise,” Athos said. “I shouldn’t have doubted your expertise.”</p>
<p>Aramis shook his head. “You always should. When we stop doubting, we get complacent. And if I <em>had</em> forgotten to suture that wound, you might well have saved Porthos’ life by asking.”</p>
<p>Those fears seemed ridiculous now. “You would never…”</p>
<p>“Don’t tell me you forgot all I told you about head knocks. You had every right to be concerned.”</p>
<p>“You hurt your head?” If there was anything other than blood loss that Aramis constantly warned them about, it had to be head injuries. That had been Athos’ initial fear and what if he had been right, what if…</p>
<p>“I don’t think I did. No pain, no blood, just my ears.” Aramis smiled at him. “But it’s always good to make sure. Always ask, please.”</p>
<p>“You know what you’re doing.”</p>
<p>“So do you.”</p>
<p>Athos shook his head. “You’re the medic. I know no more than what you’ve told me over the years. Mainly, no bleeding.”</p>
<p>“And just based on that you were right to question what I’ve done.” Aramis pointed at the soiled bandages in the corner. “But I didn’t mean that. You know what you’re doing when you’re leading us. You know when to trust us and when to ask.”</p>
<p>“And when to send you into the path of an explosion.” Because that still rankled.</p>
<p>“Somebody had to go over there. I was closest.”</p>
<p>Which was objectively correct, but also very far from what Athos’ mind had told him all night. Sending Aramis over there and getting him blown up. Seeing all those dead and injured men. Finding Aramis, then leaving him again. Seeing Porthos injured and not returning. Not knowing if they had made it out alive. Walking into the house to see Porthos on the table and Aramis covered in blood… The previous day had replayed in his mind over and over again.</p>
<p>“Stop torturing yourself,” Porthos said. Reading minds, as usual. “We all do what we need to do. You just make sure we’re staying on track.”</p>
<p>“Resting,” Aramis reminded him. “You trusted me to do my best. We trusted you to do yours. It’s exactly what we did back in Paris.”</p>
<p>But with somewhat higher stakes now that they were back in the war. The last dregs of a foregone conclusion of a war, but a war nonetheless. Athos sighed.</p>
<p>“We didn’t achieve much,” he said. That much for all their lofty ideals. They didn’t survive first contact with the enemy. “Only two hundred Huguenots lived through the night.”</p>
<p>He’d heard that earlier when he had gone downstairs. Two hundred prisoners. A third or so of the defenders that had remained in Privas. A third of the people they had tried to defend the previous night.</p>
<p>“We cannot stop every evil,” Aramis said.</p>
<p>“We can sure try,” Porthos said.</p>
<p>And they would. Athos knew they would. Together.</p>
<p>What good would it do to mention that outside Richelieu was hanging those two hundred men from every available tree?</p>
<p>With any luck, Porthos at least would stay inside long enough to never have to know.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning for graphic descriptions of hanging and dead bodies.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div class="d_3zJDR P_1Izyn">
  <p></p>
  <div class="msg-body w_AS mq_AS ix_AS H_Z1jxxvJ o_A">
    <p></p>
    <div>
      <p>“Captain Tréville, might I suggest…” Athos bit his tongue when he saw the captain’s indulgent smile. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“You may not,” Captain Tréville said, his tone much too kind for his words.</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“We could follow,” Athos said. “I can, certainly. Aramis and Porthos could once Porthos...”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“I need you here, Athos.” A hint of finality slipped into Captain Tréville’s voice.</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“My place is with the regiment, with the king.” </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Athos had to try. He had a duty. He had a role to play at the side of his captain, his king.</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“Your place is where the regiment and the king send you. And as the commander of the regiment and in close conversation with the king, I have decided that you will best serve France right here at Privas.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Athos looked down at where his cane had scraped patterns in the dirt. “This is a non-fighting post.” </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“That is my hope.” Captain Tréville sighed. “You will have to hold it if necessary. If they return, if they… I leave you ill-prepared for any significant attack, but… While his majesty might be willing to spare more men, the officers have proven most unwilling to stay behind.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>So they had been chosen. After everyone else had declined. Showed them where they ranked in the hierarchy. Not that it should surprise him. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>A hand squeezed Athos’ shoulder. When he looked up, Captain Tréville had stepped closer and was smiling at him. “Because I know I can rely on you,” he said. “Because the king does, too.” </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Athos kept the grimace off his face with some effort and nodded. “Thank you, Captain Tréville.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“I know that you are as eager as everyone else is to move on and end this war. And you deserve to see it brought to its conclusion, but so many cannot ride and the army cannot wait. We ride to Alès and, God willing, to victory.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“Of course,” Athos said. “We would not want to be a hindrance.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Captain Tréville nodded. “You never are. Stay here this time. We will be reunited once all this is over.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“Of course, Captain.” The repetition sounded inane in Athos’ ears, but he could not think of anything more intelligent to say. What was there to say? The army would ride, the war would end, and they would still be in a sleepy town that had been levelled to the ground by fighting and flame, far from the king they had sworn to protect. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“Rest, Athos,” Captain Tréville said. “You have done more than enough.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“We would do more.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“And you will. You are left in command of the city and several hundred of his majesty’s men. Do not discount this duty so easily. Believe me, it is not entrusted lightly.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Athos bit down firmly on his cheek as he nodded. “I appreciate that.” </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“You have Aramis to help you as much as he can, and Porthos when he is able. Individual regiments might retain some of their own structures of command.” </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“We shall find a coherent approach,” Athos said. The last thing he wanted was for Captain Tréville to worry about what would become of them and how they would cope with managing a bunch of mostly injured men. He had another siege to focus on and the protection of the king to manage now with his depleted regiment. He should not be concerned about the management of the small outpost he left behind. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Captain Tréville squeezed his shoulder again. “I know. I’m more comfortable with you in charge than I would have been with any of these officers. Injured men, a ruined city, potentially marauding Huguenots to contend with… It takes an extraordinary mind to be in charge of all that. I’ll rest easy knowing it’s yours. Take good care of them.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He turned and stepped away before Athos could think of a suitable reply. As soon as he mounted his horse, the regiment followed in a great commotion of scraping boots, clinking weapons and snorting horses. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Bernard released the reins of the captain’s horse which he had been holding and stood next to Athos. A fresh white bandage on his arm covered an ugly burn that had started to fester. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>The tall musketeer shook his head as they watched everyone else lift hands and hats in farewell as they trotted away. Athos appreciated his silence as his own stomach tied itself in knots. There went the regiment. And here remained the four of them, five if one counted Hugo, the stable boy. Everyone else had been declared fit to ride. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He drew back his shoulders and breathed deeply as the last musketeers rode from the yard in a cloud of dust. The clatter of the horses’ hooves withdrew down the road to where they would wait for the king and his retinue. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“Gentlemen,” Athos said, nodding to Bernard and to Aramis who was leaning against the wall of the farm house they had requisitioned as their quarters. “We have a busy day ahead of us to survey our situation and gather the remaining troops.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“It will be easiest if we transfer the most badly wounded here and to the neighbouring farm,” Aramis said. He had his eyes closed. On account of the sun, maybe. More likely because he still struggled with constant vertigo. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“Along with any medics that remain,” Athos said. “Although I want you to have the medical oversight.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Aramis nodded. “I’ll make my rounds and speak to anyone who’s treating the injured.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He would. He’d make them all feel valued and important with his charm. And Athos would not have to worry. He could appreciate how reassuring that was. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He left Bernard with instructions to scope out the capacity for both men and horses they had, told Hugo to saddle his horse and followed Aramis back inside. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Aramis walked like a sailor freshly returned to solid ground. His hearing had mostly returned, but his balance was still off. He had to steady himself on the walls and the furniture. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“Do you need the kitchen for surgery?” Athos asked. “I can tell the men to do their cooking in the yard.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“For now, yes,” Aramis said. “Let me have a look at everyone and then I’ll let them inside. But I could do without someone peeling onions on the table while I’m digging a musket ball out of a wound.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“Perfectly reasonable. Anything else you need?”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“Hugo, if you can spare him. He’ll fetch and carry for me.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Because Aramis couldn’t. Not quickly, not easily, not when he could barely understand a word in a crowded room. Athos forced his guilt and worry down into something controllable. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“I’m sure Bernard can manage the stables on his own,” he said. “And regarding the house…”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“We can’t move Porthos,” Aramis said and Athos’ stomach gave a jolt. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“That bad?”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Aramis sat down on the edge of the kitchen table where some small dark stains had seeped into the wood. He smiled tenuously. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“No worse than before, but bad enough. I’m not moving him if I can help it.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“Of course not.” Athos looked him in the eye and made sure to speak very clearly. “Anything you need. You have my word.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Aramis nodded. “We need to trust his body now. At least the fever shows that it’s fighting the infection.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“That’s good.” The words were so utterly inadequate, but they were the best Athos had to offer. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“How are you?” </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“Quite all right.” </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“You could send messengers, rest your foot…” Aramis sounded unconvinced by his own suggestion.</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“This is my duty,” Athos said. “The men need to see me and I need to see our environs.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“Doesn’t mean that you have to do it alone.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“And I’m not. I rely on your work here while I make my rounds.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“You know it’s no slight to be left behind.” Aramis let the sentence hover between statement and question. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“I do. My only regret is that I cannot be here to support Porthos and you.” Which wasn’t much of a lie.</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“We’ll be quite all right.” Aramis smiled at him. “He’s mostly sleeping and I suspect I’ve got a few more wounds to bandage.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Athos rode out as soon as he could. He had to be seen before those left behind by other regiments had sufficient time to make their own decisions. They had been told to expect word from him. He met some groups on the road, already heading towards the farm, bearing their injured on rudimentary stretchers between them. Aramis’ work would be plentiful. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>There was work for Athos as well, that quickly became obvious as his widening circles led him to camp after camp of men. He kept a tally in his head and by late afternoon he had sent a good three hundred men to camp in a central location. The weather was fine and living in tents would be no hardship for them now. He thought back to La Rochelle and the dismal conditions at the start, then all the infrastructure put in place to combat them. Unless there were intense thunderstorms, they might get away without having to establish any more permanent structures than latrines. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>An infantry regiment had been left behind to guard the ruins of the city and Mont Toulon to its west where the Huguenots had taken their last stand. Athos spoke to the regiment’s commanding officer, an older, reasonable man, who did not seem inclined to seek out glory or excitement. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“We’re the lucky ones,” he said. “For us, the war is over.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Was it? Athos did not contradict what seemed an earnest sentiment but with Porthos and Aramis both injured, the shadow of war still lingered for him. He told the infantry officer to keep watch nonetheless, which the man readily agreed to. His regiment had arrived late and suffered few injuries, but he was very thankful when Athos offered the services of the musketeers’ regimental medic to treat any men that had been hurt. If Porthos’ tales were anything to go by, medical attention was hard to come by in the infantry. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>All was calm. No quarrel with any other commanders, no threats to his authority, not even grumbles against his orders. Everyone was content to wait out the remainder of the war tending to their wounded and lazing about in the shade of the many chestnut trees. For them, the war was over. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He had ridden out to the west of the river, but crossed it as the shadows started to lengthen, turning his back on the worst of the destruction to trot down a forest path that was untouched by the violence all around. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He had only ridden for a few minutes before that treacherous peace was disturbed by cracking whips and whinnying horses. The very ground seemed to shake underneath him. Athos patted his horse’s neck to reassure him. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>They found the source of the noise soon enough. A steep path that led down from the plateau of Le Vanel had been torn up by heavy wheels. Six heavy pieces of artillery were being hauled towards the main road, the vanguard of the moving army. Athos did not need to hear the men shout to each other in their strange, guttural tongue to know who they were: The Swiss mercenaries Richelieu had praised so much. Their heavy bombardment from a vantage point deemed inaccessible by the defenders had breached the walls of Privas and ended this siege in a timely manner.  </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Athos supposed he should thank them, but they took little notice of him, focused as they were on hauling their heavy guns. He glanced at those great, cast-iron mouths. How many had they devoured? They fired from such a great distance, the connection between the killer and the killed was lost. A strange, unseemly kind of war. It wasn’t an accident that these rough foreigners engaged in it and not musketeers. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He spurred his horse on, eager to escape ruminations on the justness of war. Nothing good lay down that particular path. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He searched for a ford to cross the river, but had to double back on himself on the main road to reach the bridge, leading him in a wide circle back to the house. It would be busy now. All those men he had sent there jostling for space, cooking their dinners, and tending their sick. There would be questions to answer, disputes to settle. What of the following days? He would keep a strict routine. His first priority was to keep everyone fed. Most of the baggage train was trundling south with the army and supplies would be routed there. At this time of year, that should not pose a problem, not for a relatively small group of men. Privas had, after all, been a town of several thousand and even with its stores destroyed by fire, the outlying farms remained, as did the villages. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He stopped suddenly. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>At first, it looked like a peculiar tree. A willow maybe, its heavy branches drooping to the earth. But as he drew closer, he saw that it was a chestnut, upright and strong. What dangled to the ground were not branches. They were men. Or bodies of men. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>His stomach dropped. Like they had. Like she…</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He tightened his grip on the reins. Keep riding. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He had to keep riding. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Five of them on that one tree. He forced himself to look at them. Eyes straight ahead, soldier. Discipline. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Five men, their faces grotesquely swollen masks of wickedness. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Because they were. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Wicked. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Wicked men died by hanging. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Wicked women. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>They deserved… or not. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Nobody deserved… </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>For their crimes. They deserved this for their crimes. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Against the king, their lord and master. Against her… </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Justice had been done. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>This was justice. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Justice. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He had to look at it, not look away. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He had to keep riding, keep looking. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>That’s what it looked like. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Hanging.</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Death.</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Justice.</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>The closer he got, the stronger the pull was to turn back, to flee. Like someone had tied a millstone to his core. His horse’s every step caused a painful tug. Like there was anything left of him to tear asunder. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Anything left… anything of him, of her, of their…</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>There was nothing left. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>All there was now was this.</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>War.</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Justice. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Duty. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He kept riding, bent like a branch weighed down by… </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>The smell followed, the putrid, sweet smell of decay, the inevitable stench of the dead left out in the singeing sun. Nobody would bury them, not even Athos. They remained, a warning on this tree, a warning to travellers and a sign to those thinking of returning to Privas. That was their fate. Death. Decay. Ignominy. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>No name, no grave. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>The remains of a battle like so many soldiers left in the field. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Not soldiers, not these. Bandits, mutineers, and traitors. Left to rot on this tree, left to turn to dust, to earth and with their eventual disappearance maybe granting new life to the charred corpse of the town beyond.</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Still, they had a role to play in this. Like he did. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Hordes of flies buzzed around the corpses. They hit his face, his hands, died plastered to his uniform. He let himself feel, feel all of it, inside and out. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>It wasn’t the only tree. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Two hundred men had been alive after the fight. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>None drew breath after Richelieu was done with them. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Two hundred.</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Too many to feel for each of them. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Enough to harden his heart to the sight of each new horrid face. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Some of their necks were broken, while others had been strangled. The difference was clear. One had crumpled to the ground, his head separated from his body. Something to do with the skill of the executioner, the length of the rope in relation to the weight. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Had she… He hadn’t stayed to find out what happened to her body after. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Her face still so vivid after all those years. Her face… </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>So many faces. All these Huguenots. Old and young. All of them. He had to look. Commit each face to memory so they could haunt him in the night, leaving no space for her. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>This wasn’t the only road and these weren’t the only gallows, the only trees. Not two hundred swinging corpses to litter his path back. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>But still plenty of them. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Without warning, they gave way to the living. Horses grazing peacefully, campfires crackling, men sitting in small groups around them. Groups small enough to hang them from one tree. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Some recognised him and waved him over. He surveyed their small camps and from some unknown reservoir of normalcy found encouraging words for all. He spoke what he didn’t feel, but judging by their faces, his words hit their mark. Smiles. Greetings and fond farewells. Relief. Happiness even. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>One group flowed into the other. Names he was told fled his mind in an instant. But over every shoulder loomed large the one face he wouldn’t forget. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He did not linger. He didn’t dismount and they didn’t question it. He was a man on the move, an important man. Nobody suspected that it was his twisted ankle that kept him in the saddle and the fear of what would happen if his feet touched the ground. They all understood the urgency of his tasks. Too many men to speak to, too many camps to see. More and more as he approached the farm. All were relieved to be resting and nursing their wounds. As he got closer to the house, the wounds got more serious. His plan had worked, had been implemented by these men, his men. Everyone who might need Aramis’ attention was close by. Good… good… Discipline, discipline was important for all. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He told them as much. Daily inspection. Daily reports to the musketeers’ medic. All those who could work were to report to him at dawn for their orders. Put them to work, don’t let them sit idle. Idleness bred contempt. Idleness bred all manner of misbehaviour. He would not tolerate these here. Could not. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Discipline. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>His swollen foot throbbed in the stirrup. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He would run his camp better than he had ever run his house. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Her face mocked him over a soldier’s head. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Discipline. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>The word was a taunt on her lips, each repetition a stabbing pain.</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Discipline. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Because he was so good at that. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He was. Had to be. It was different now. People relied on him. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Not so different than before then, was it? </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>The king relied on him and Captain Tréville. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>His family had relied on him. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>And then… hanged for her sins. Their sins. Their behaviour. Hanged because it served justice, because it was duty. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He did his duty. He would see to it that everyone else did theirs. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Duty. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Justice.</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Honour. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He said as much. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>The honourable Athos. The honourable Comte de la Fère. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Mocking. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>The men thanked him. Promised their loyalty. Asked him questions he could answer. Simple things. Food and drink and where they should stay. He settled the small, meaningless disputes that arose. Nothing of any consequence. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>When Athos finally made it back to the farm where they had made their quarters, the yard was busy, but not overcrowded, and the house was positively serene. Two men carried another down the corridor on a makeshift stretcher and Athos was grateful for the momentary rest that letting them pass gave him. There was nobody loitering around. In the kitchen, a cook with his head wrapped in bandages stirred a large pot of bubbling soup while two others were kneading dough. On the floor next to the table knelt Aramis, wrapping bandages around a soldier’s swollen knee. He didn’t look up until all the others snapped to attention. Then he turned, saw Athos, and beamed up at him. Athos breathed easier, seeing him smile. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“You’re back.” Aramis’ eyes scanned Athos’ face, then his body. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Athos looked back steadily. “How are you faring with the men?” he asked. Keep the conversation formal for now, while others were around. Their friendship was well-known among the musketeers, but beyond the regiment, it would not do to come across as too familiar. Couldn’t give anyone any ideas of how they could treat their superiors. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Because you’re oh so superior, Athos…</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“Last patient for the day.” Aramis turned his attention back to the task at hand. “Eleven serious cases that remain in the Lord’s hand and may yet prove fatal. We have housed them here, each with an attendant to see to their needs. The burns concern me with the risk of infection, but overall the majority of wounds is minor. Praised be the Lord.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>The cook bustled over and Athos gratefully accepted a glass of wine from him. He drained it greedily, washing away the dust and memories of the road. Meanwhile, Aramis sent the injured soldier on his way with encouraging words and a simple wooden cane. His eyes flashed to Athos, who started to regret the lack of his own, much more ornate cane. Riding had been one thing, but standing was another. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“Sit,” Aramis said, pointing to the newly vacated chair. “And let me make a full report.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Sitting and drinking while Aramis talked. That was familiar. So were people bustling in and out, serving him food or asking his advice. Familiar from a very different time. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>So many questions, but none of them difficult to answer. It was all inconsequential chatter, men coming into the room, hat in hand, telling him their concerns, leaving satisfied with his replies. The best thing about it was that their voices kept the other voice at bay. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Ah yes, because he was hearing voices. He smirked to himself. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Aramis caught his eye, smiling back at him. “You’re good at this.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Athos nodded. Yes… Yes, he was. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Aramis’ smile widened into a grin, stretching wide from ear to ear as his eyes glinted with mirth. “You’re so good.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Athos drained his wine and got to his feet, trying very hard not to flinch at the pain that shot through his twisted ankle. That was not a topic of conversation he wished to pursue any further. “Regular watches,” he reminded the men in the room. They murmured their assent and Athos bade them a good night.</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“Muster at six,” he said. If there were any churches still standing and ringing the hour. “As soon as the sun is up,” he amended. “I’ll be in the small chamber at the end of the corridor if there’s anything during the night.” </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“There won’t be, Captain.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“I’m no captain. It’s Athos to you.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“Yes, Sir.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Aramis chuckled as soon as they’d left the kitchen. “Captain Athos, has a ring to it.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Athos bit his lip, but said nothing. That was the last thing he wanted. A title. Like it wasn’t bad enough to carry the responsibility. Rank and titles had not done him any favours in the past. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“Captain Tréville’s old room?” Aramis asked. Athos had his reply ready.</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“I don’t want to wake you every time someone needs me. Porthos needs his sleep.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Aramis slung an arm around him and casually supported him. “You think of everything.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“Hardly,” Athos said, but leaned onto him gratefully. His foot felt fit to burst out of its boot. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“Come say goodnight though,” Aramis said. “He’ll love seeing you like this.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Like this… like Porthos had not seen him on the brink plenty of times. But that was not what Aramis meant, what he saw. Good… Athos leaned a bit more into their lopsided embrace, let Aramis take his weight. Anything to distract him. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“I’ll have another look at that ankle,” Aramis said, taking the bait. “You really shouldn’t be on your feet so much. Try and sit down a bit tomorrow and put it up in the night.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>While it was painful to have his foot extracted from the boot and then bathed and poked by Aramis, it at least meant Athos didn’t have to face either one of them. Porthos was awake, but still lying flat on his stomach given the gaping hole in his back, and only briefly turned his head to smile at him. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>It was easier to talk about his day, to enquire about Porthos’ health, when nobody was looking at him. He was slowly opening up that heavy cloak of responsibility he had worn all day and they did not have to see him naked underneath. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“You sure you don’t want to stay here?” Porthos asked. His words were slurred with sleep or pain or both and Athos shared a significant look with Aramis. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“I’ve already told everyone where to find me,” Athos said, gently squeezing Porthos’ arm. “It’s easiest that way.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“Plus, he’ll love having a proper bed and his own room,” Aramis said. “Give him some space.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“I don’t need…”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“Not everyone is a limpet like me,” Aramis said with a grin. “You go and enjoy your own room.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Porthos chuckled. “Think he’s mostly trying to get away from you, Aramis. I’m not bothering anyone.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“I’ve been terribly well behaved, I’ll have you know. I’ve been digging round in so many wounds today, I’d happily become a hermit.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Porthos snorted. “That would last a grand total of one day before you’d come running back feeling lonely.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“Good thing I’m stuck with you then, eh?”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>The familiar banter would keep them occupied. They seemed happy enough for now, making him feel somewhat better about leaving them. Athos got to his feet, finally reunited with his cane, and grabbed the saddle bags with his few belongings. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“Gentlemen,” he said. “Have a good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“I’ll see to this patient first,” Aramis said with a wink. “You go and enjoy your solitude. And Athos… We’re proud of you.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Athos nodded. “I do my duty.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“And you do it well.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Athos shrugged. “Of course.”</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>“Good night, commander,” Porthos called from the bed. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Aramis’ laugh followed Athos down the stairs to his own room. The sheets were still ruffled from Captain Tréville, but otherwise the place was spotless, if small. Maybe the room of a trusted, higher servant or an elderly relative? There was a nightstand with a bible on it and a man’s coat hung over the back of a solitary chair. They’d chosen well when they settled the regiment in this farm. The owners must have had considerable wealth. Had they remained behind or were they already settled in England or elsewhere?</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Athos opened the doors of the wardrobe to leave his things inside rather than scatter them around the room. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He choked on his breath. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>A crate of bottles. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Wine bottles.</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>The bags clattered to the floor and his hand reached out as if on a puppeteer’s string. He didn’t… A fine layer of dust on the bottles, but once he brushed it aside… the shimmering blackness of liquid relief greeted him. Full bottles. His fingers closed around slender necks like the hangman’s noose. One bottle, two. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Sloshing liquid drowning out her shrill, mocking laugh. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He drank deeply, relishing the momentary silence. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He could be only this, the commander of this camp, the one in control, the one who was doing so, so well. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>But…</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Another great gulp. It tasted like vinegar. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Because he was doing well. Aramis had said so and Athos knew he was right. Captain Tréville had given him this post because he knew that Athos would do well in it and—despite his initial protests—Athos had known he was right. Not many had his innate skill for organisation and strategy. Not many could keep as many disparate pieces of information in their minds and utilise them as required. He was the right man for this particular duty and he was doing well. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>So much better than he ever had…</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Wine to make it more palatable.</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He was good. So good. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Good at hiding, good at absconding responsibility…</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Good at stepping up, accepting responsibility. He had earned this solitary drink. He had earned the relief it brought. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>His fingers stroked over the treasure he’d found in the wardrobe. Had Captain Tréville known it was there? Probably not. He’d know better than that, he wouldn’t knowingly leave Athos with so much wine. Surely, Aramis had warned him, had told him about these days long ago… Aramis who always took such good care of them. Who took care of Porthos now. Lessened Athos’ worries, his concerns, his guilt over not being there for them…</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Smooth wine soothed his frantic thoughts. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He placed the empty bottle back into the crate and took another. Easiest to retire to his bed now. He did need some rest before morning muster. Much work to be done. An inventory of supplies. If he could split up the men in small groups and send them out to all the other abandoned farms for supplies… </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Might as well grab another bottle or two. There was space on the nightstand. He picked up the bible and thumbed through it. Huguenot words. How quickly had they left to leave such a treasure behind?</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>How quickly had he left to leave everything behind? His life had been gone, of course, but the house, the grounds, the peasants… </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Wash it all away… he’d done plenty of that… Her face… lips curling in a sneer. Beautiful lips… kissable lips… Lips that… lied. Lips that lied. Died. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>His ankle made him stumble as he tried to undress. Stupid, fragile ankle. He didn’t have time for fragility now. They were still at war, he had a duty to the crown, had to show himself worthy of Captain Tréville’s trust, had to be there for Porthos and Aramis. He stretched out on the bed with a groan and decided it was best to dull the pain so he could sleep. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Sleep like… her lips in her dead face. All those dead faces… All those trees. And her tree, that one tree. Beautiful… beautiful memories and then… ugly. Deceit. Lies. Murder. All that criminality he should have seen, all the things he should have realised… He’d been blind. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>The pain… wine dulled the pain. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>What had she looked like in death? Was she still pretty? Beautiful… such a beautiful wife. The perfect wife. So superior in looks, an equal in intellect. A woman he could spend time with and enjoy himself. A woman who was everything to him. A woman who took everything from him. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Her face… </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>The Huguenots’ faces… </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Beautiful, beautiful still… even now she still…</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He shook his head and gulped down the wine. Nothing but shadows of the past. Figments of his imagination. He was better now, had a better life than that pitiful existence of the Comte de la Fère. Everything was better now. So much better. He had to believe it because if he didn’t. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He had to.</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Had to.</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Had to drink.</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Drink.</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>The bottle dropped from his hand. It didn’t shatter, wasn’t so fragile. He watched it slowly roll across the floor, spilling its blood. Wine. Wine pooling like blood on the floor. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Had she bled? Had it been quick? Had she… Once, near the end, had she regretted her deeds? Or had she died cursing his name? </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He couldn’t think of that. It didn’t matter now. She was dead now. He had to think of the living, of Aramis and Porthos upstairs, of the men who relied on him. Think of France, the king and cardinal, think of the war that was yet to be won. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Drown the demon of his past when it wouldn’t stay buried. Drown her deeper and deeper in that dark, bloody wine. It was his duty. Make her die, make her pay for what she had done, to him, to Thomas, to all the people she had deprived of what was rightfully theirs, to the land she had made him abandon, to the duty… make her pay… it had been his duty…</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Duty. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He needed to do his duty. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Not think. Do his duty. Cause he… he had to. Had to do… Morning muster at six. Six o’clock. It was his duty. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He did his duty. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>She shouldn’t mock him.</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>It was his duty. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Why was she laughing?</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Drown her, bury her, make her stop.</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>All those men, hanged for their crimes. And his wife, hanged for hers. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>There was blood on his hands. It dripped onto the sheets, staining them red. His hands were red with it. Blood, hers and theirs and all that blood... </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He needed… he needed to calm himself. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Some wine would help.</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Help him… </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He couldn’t help them, help her, but he had to… he could…</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>He tore the stopper from the bottle with his teeth and spat it out. </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Why wouldn’t she leave him alone? She’d never liked his drinking. She should leave him. Leave him be. Not watch him, laughing, mocking… He was good now, he was… Athos of the king’s musketeers. Athos, commander at Privas. He was so much more than what she had destroyed. She shouldn’t be there at all, she had no business being anything but dead and he’d kill her again and again, not hang her but drown her, drown her in wine that was red as her lips, her blood… All her blood on his hands… </p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>The blood…</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>Her…</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>…</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>…</p>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning for attempted suicide.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Athos!”</p>
<p>Her voice, so insistent, so commanding from beyond the grave.</p>
<p>“Athos!”</p>
<p>Why wouldn’t she stop? Leave him be after everything… everything…</p>
<p>“Athos!”</p>
<p>She had already… everything was already… she had her revenge, his life… the Comte de la Fère was no more. But she wanted more, tearing into his brain with such… such pain…</p>
<p>“Athos!”</p>
<p>His face rocked to the side with the force of a slap. Why was she…? How…?</p>
<p>“God damn it, Athos, wake up.”</p>
<p>His other cheek burned as well. Bile burned in his throat. Burning… burning… burning like a witch… like…</p>
<p>“I’ll kill you. Lord Jesus help me, but I’ll kill you for this…”</p>
<p>That low murmur… her words but not her voice… Why was she mocking him? Always mocking, always…</p>
<p>His stomach clenched, that same rope tightening around it that had pulled him back from the hanging trees… from her tree. The pain… the… Why was there pain? Why was she hurting him? Why was she never satisfied? Why…? There’d been oblivion… black, black oblivion… black, dark, sweet…</p>
<p>“Damn you!” Another slap threw Athos’ head back into… something… something hard.</p>
<p>His eyes snapped… no… no… they… It was hard. His eyes were… Something wasn’t… the dark was nice. The dark… but also… Slowly… painfully slowly his eyelids scraped open.</p>
<p>Bright light pierced his skull. Everything was moving… moving and… and… There was a face.</p>
<p>“Anne…” Her name clawed its way out of his throat.</p>
<p>He grimaced at the sharp taste in his mouth and retched.</p>
<p>“Get me some water.”</p>
<p>That wasn’t… that wasn’t her… that wasn’t… That was a man. He blinked until a face swam into focus. Beautiful but… not her. A man. A…</p>
<p>“Aramis.” His own voice was shrill in his ears.</p>
<p>Why?</p>
<p>Then…</p>
<p>“What time is it?”</p>
<p>“Six o’clock.”</p>
<p>Six… six… that was…</p>
<p>“Morning muster.” He scrambled to get up. He had to… had to… everyone… and he needed…</p>
<p>“Yes, I’ll see to that next.”</p>
<p>Something about Aramis’ voice was off. He didn’t usually sound so… so… he was usually kind. Funny. He was… a good man… a brother… he was…</p>
<p>“Sit up.”</p>
<p>Aramis didn’t usually… Command didn’t suit him. He wasn’t like…</p>
<p>The world shifted suddenly, spun, spun, spun in a rapid circle of colour and light.</p>
<p>“Hellfire and damnation, like I have nothing else to do.”</p>
<p>He leaned against something. Something rough and cool. The wall. Had to be. The wall.</p>
<p>Aramis’ hand in his hair. Not gentle. Rough. Pulling his head back.</p>
<p>Cold water splashed onto his face. He sputtered, coughed, retched some more. His eyes stung and he rubbed them. Blinked. Slowly, slowly Aramis’ face solidified. He didn’t look… Athos knew he was handsome. Usually. But now he… he looked…</p>
<p>A flask at his lip and he… yes… yes, he needed a drink.</p>
<p>Water.</p>
<p>He let it dribble down his chin. He didn’t want…</p>
<p>“You’ll drink this or so help me God, I’ll make you.”</p>
<p>Sometimes they interrogated people and Aramis always… they usually complied when he… with that tone… and Athos understood. He drank. It didn’t… it wasn’t what he needed, but it lessened the burn. One kind of burn while the other…</p>
<p>“You’re the commander here,” Aramis hissed. “Your first morning in charge and you… they trusted you. Tréville, the king. They trusted you and you… All these men, Athos, all these men…”</p>
<p>“I can…”</p>
<p>“You can do nothing but sleep this off. You couldn’t go out there if you tried. You can’t even sit up in bed.”</p>
<p>“I can…” Athos tried, but his legs… his arms… they wouldn’t… not the way they usually... Aramis pushed him back against the wall with a single finger to his chest.</p>
<p>“You can’t.”</p>
<p>Athos stared at that single finger. Maybe he had to concede that point.</p>
<p>“You stay in here and don’t move,” Aramis said. “Don’t you dare… don’t you dare leave this room.”</p>
<p>“I have to… the men.” It was his duty… his duty to… All these men, Aramis said, all these men…</p>
<p>“They will send their best wishes for your swift recovery when they hear that you have taken ill.”</p>
<p>Athos shivered. Aramis’ voice was colder than the water had been.</p>
<p>“I’m not ill.”</p>
<p>“No,” Aramis said. “But you’re drunk out of your mind and I don’t want to humiliate you that much that I’d tell them that. But trust me, it’s a close call between covering your sorry arse and dragging you out there for all to see the pitiful state you’re in.”</p>
<p><em>You’re an embarrassment, Athos.</em> His mother’s voice. Humiliation… Pitiful…</p>
<p>“What will they think?” What would they… the men and Captain Tréville and the king and… her… she knew… knew him for who he was, knew that he… she’d always known, hadn’t she? She…</p>
<p>Aramis’ laugh was like shattering glass. “That you have exerted yourself in doing your duty, if I do this right,” he said. “But don’t ask me what I think.”</p>
<p>What he… What was he thinking? He was upset, Athos could tell. Upset about his drinking. Like she had been.</p>
<p>He needed wine.</p>
<p>“Water.” Aramis dropped a waterskin onto the nightstand. “Chamber pot.” Something scraped across the floor. “And I dare say you won’t need food.”</p>
<p>Food. The thought made him heave.</p>
<p>“Thought so.”</p>
<p>A hand at the nape of his neck, not kind, not gentle, pinching, clenching, then turning his head to look at the waterskin.</p>
<p>“You’re drinking this. I’ll be back at noon and if it isn’t empty, I’ll make you swallow it whole.”</p>
<p>Something in his tone… he was upset but also… also… Athos couldn’t place it.</p>
<p>Aramis let go of his neck and Athos’ head dropped back against the wall with a thud. Curious. It used to stay up on its own.</p>
<p>Aramis stood up and looked down at Athos with… what? Disgust? Pity? He couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t…</p>
<p>“You stay here,” Aramis repeated. “You don’t leave. You don’t go anywhere. You sober up. That’s all.”</p>
<p>“Sure,” Athos said, thought he said. His tongue was thick and clumsy in his mouth.</p>
<p>Aramis shook his head and the gesture repeated endlessly, his head swaying, the room swaying, everything… Athos could barely focus on him as he turned and took the few steps across the small room. Such a small room. It had been different when she… when they both… Different room, different life, different name. All far, far away now. So far…</p>
<p>With his hand on the doorknob, Aramis hesitated, then turned.</p>
<p>“How could you do this?” he asked. “To Porthos… to me?”</p>
<p>The words echoed. To Porthos… to me… how… how…</p>
<p>The door closed. A key scraped in the lock and then… how could you… how… Porthos… me… how… It went on and on, words being thrown from one wall to the other as the room swayed, rolling from side to side like a great ship.</p>
<p>He must have fallen asleep or at least the light had changed. His thoughts moved in uncoordinated jerks from Aramis to Anne, from one tree to another… His tongue lay large and dry in his dusty mouth. He needed a drink for his body as much as his mind. All those bottles at the bottom of the wardrobe… He licked his spiky lips, failing to soften or moisten them. If he could just…</p>
<p>With a wretched groan, he sat up, only to immediately double over as his stomach clenched. Bile burned his throat, but nothing much came up. He let his head drop forward into his hands, trying to hold on to all its parts, and watched the phlegm dribble onto the floor.</p>
<p>The pitiful state he was in…</p>
<p>He wanted to sleep again, to forget, to simply not be… not be this, himself, the creature Aramis had dragged back from oblivion against its will. There was nothing for it. He felt so wretched now, he doubted he could go back to sleep. Everything hurt and burned and the room had still not stopped swaying.</p>
<p>Experience taught him that a bottle of wine would help.</p>
<p>He tried… tried to… he couldn’t will his tired bones into enough motion to get him upright so eventually he slid to the floor and crawled across the room like the animal he was. Slow. Painful. Every bone, every muscle ached.</p>
<p>Finally, finally, the wardrobe. He fumbled with the door, knocked it against his head which shattered into a dozen pieces. But he was close, so close now to his salvation, his liquid Christ.</p>
<p>Was this what Aramis felt in prayer?</p>
<p>Aramis… The thought made him pause. How could he do this to them?</p>
<p>But then again… how could he make it through this day without at least a little bit of his bottled fortitude? He wouldn’t drink much. A little to make the pain go away.</p>
<p>He opened the door.</p>
<p>He stared.</p>
<p>Nothing.</p>
<p>He reached in, rooted around.</p>
<p>Nothing.</p>
<p>Not a single bottle left behind.</p>
<p>With a strangled cry he sank to the floor.</p>
<p>Nothing.</p>
<p>Nothing at all.</p>
<p>Did Aramis not want him to get better? Did he….</p>
<p>He wanted him to be sober. To feel all the pain of this day and sober up to face the pain that waited beyond the wine-sodden fog.</p>
<p>It was cruel.</p>
<p>Why?</p>
<p>He punched the unyielding stone, which sent shockwaves of pain from his head to his toes. Then he lay there, panting, sweating with exhaustion.</p>
<p>Why?</p>
<p>Why him? Why this? Why now?</p>
<p>Running, fighting, becoming… all for nought. All these years, wasted. Right back where he started from on the very day he took command of a city. On the very day he had succeeded, he had been someone, his very own avenging demon rose from the grave to drag him down again. He couldn’t… not now, not ever… she’d be back, she’d always be the millstone dragging him down, down, down into the depth of wine and the abyss of his own black mind. Cursed forever for what he had done and for what he’d failed to see.</p>
<p>Forever…</p>
<p>He didn’t die. There was no kind relief. The wine didn’t stop his heart or whatever else it was Aramis feared. Nothing happened. Nobody came to mock him, to pity him. Outside this room, his purgatory, life went on. He heard men walk back and forth, heard them talk. Talk about him? Or did they not even care? They’d think he’d exerted himself doing his duty. That’s what Aramis had said.</p>
<p>But what if he… No… Aramis wouldn’t lie. And Aramis wouldn’t make this worse for him. Athos rolled over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. Nobody would make anything worse for him now. Not Aramis, not Porthos, not Captain Tréville or any of the other musketeers. On the contrary, they’d protect him. Had protected him so far and were doing so now. They weren’t the people of his past.</p>
<p>He wasn’t the person he had been either.</p>
<p>And yet he still acted like he was.</p>
<p>So easily thrown off kilter. So quickly reduced to the wretch he had been when Porthos picked him out of the gutter and showed him how much more he could be. Years of their love poured into him. Years of Aramis’ cautions. Years of growing, of becoming a man worthy of their trust, their love.</p>
<p>He dragged himself back towards the bed and lifted the waterskin to his lips. He rinsed the sharp tang from his mouth, then drank deeply. It wasn’t what he craved, but it was what he had, what Aramis wanted him to drink, and he would obey.</p>
<p>He owed him that.</p>
<p>He owed all of them.</p>
<p>He would recover. He would resume his post. He would warrant the trust put into him. Do his duty all the better now after this… this slip. Because it had to be, it was. Not his downfall, but a temporary disturbance. He knew he was good. He was a musketeer, he was Captain Tréville’s second in command, he was a respected swordsman, a friend, a brother to the greatest warriors in all of France. And he was good at this. He had the mind for strategy and practicalities. He could make the impossible work. They trusted him to do so again and again. They trusted him with their lives and they weren’t wrong to do so. He was good. He knew that. But he also knew he had failed them, had failed himself.</p>
<p>Discipline.</p>
<p>A more disciplined approach to his duty was needed. How could he demand discipline from his men if he could not lead by example? He wasn’t one of those despicable leaders who sent men into battle from their armchairs. He was more than that, had become more over the past few years. That would not change now because he had seen some people hanged. Porthos had not resumed criminality at the sight of starvation. Athos would not become who he had been at the first reminder of his own long-buried past.</p>
<p>There was precious little to channel his new-found resolve into with his aching body and uncooperative mind. Instead, he followed instructions and rested. He slept when he could and attempted to clear his mind when he couldn’t, listening to the sounds of the men all around. His men, or they would have been, should have been.</p>
<p>At noon, as promised, Aramis came. His face was an odd mixture of anger and relief. Athos answered his questions as briskly as they were asked.</p>
<p>Yes, he had drunk the water.</p>
<p>Yes, his head hurt.</p>
<p>Yes, his body did, too.</p>
<p>Yes, he was still nauseous.</p>
<p>No, he hadn’t vomited in some time.</p>
<p>Yes, he would try some bread.</p>
<p>When Aramis seemed satisfied, Athos chanced a question of his own.</p>
<p>“How is Porthos?”</p>
<p>Aramis grabbed the empty waterskin and threw a full one down in its place. “I haven’t had time to look in on him yet.”</p>
<p>Because Athos was the more urgent case or because Porthos deserved updates on Athos more than Athos deserved updates on him?</p>
<p>“How are the men?”</p>
<p>“One died this morning. Not unexpected.”</p>
<p>“Has his regiment been informed?”</p>
<p>“Yes. They are looking after him now.”</p>
<p>“Can we have the funeral tomorrow or does it have to be today?”</p>
<p>Aramis gave him a long, calculating look. “That should be possible.”</p>
<p>“I would like to say a few words.” Athos half-expected Aramis to laugh at him, to tell him that he could spare them all his insincerity.</p>
<p>Instead, Aramis shrugged. “You are the commander.”</p>
<p>Athos decided not to pursue that any further while he lay in a darkened room reeking of his own vomit.</p>
<p>“Any more expected fatalities?”</p>
<p>“That’s in God’s hands,” Aramis said. “But a further two or three would not come as a surprise and… with burns in particular the infection can be vicious.”</p>
<p>Athos nodded. “Look after Porthos,” he said. Not that any of the men were unimportant, but Porthos, Porthos was more than that.</p>
<p>“I’ll come back tonight,” Aramis said. “I might be late.”</p>
<p>“I won’t go anywhere.”</p>
<p>“You better not.”</p>
<p>“Thank you, Aramis. I’m sorry to—”</p>
<p>“You should have thought of that last night.” Aramis turned on his heel and closed the door behind himself, leaving Athos in the echoing silence of his room.</p>
<p>The afternoon passed in much the same manner. When the shadows on the wall slowly lengthened, Athos got up to open the window. He was reassuringly steady on his feet and walked the length of the room a few times to stretch his aching legs. He had not been that poorly in a long time. That hungover. He should call it by its name. A hangover.</p>
<p>Since it was early June, the sun set well past nine o’clock. Aramis did not return until its red embers were already close to dying and Athos’ stomach was audibly complaining about the lack of sustenance.</p>
<p>The sliver of bright lamplight from the corridor that heralded Aramis’ arrival still stabbed Athos’ eyes, but the pain was negligible compared to what it had been that morning. Aramis closed the door behind himself and leaned against it, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the comparative darkness of the room.</p>
<p>“Good evening,” Athos said.</p>
<p>“Are you trying to impress me?” Aramis asked.</p>
<p>“I know that that would be impossible today.”</p>
<p>Nevertheless, Athos carefully straightened the blanket on the bed after removing his sprained ankle from it and getting to his feet. “Please, sit,” he said, motioning to the chair he had vacated. “It has been a long and difficult day.”</p>
<p>“Indeed…” Aramis surveyed the scene. The bed made, albeit clumsily, the commode emptied out the window, the waterskin dutifully drunk dry. Athos himself had had limited means to make himself presentable, but he had, at least, changed into clean clothes, which made him feel somewhat more human. But Aramis’ eyes skated over him and lingered on the book Athos had been reading before the light failed.</p>
<p>“That dire you turn to religion?” Aramis picked up the bible and opened it.</p>
<p>“I had never had the opportunity to read one of theirs.” Athos shrugged. “It is of some academic interest to me.”</p>
<p>Aramis snapped the book shut and traced its edges with his finger. “So much… for this.”</p>
<p>So much… so much indeed. And yet… Athos was hardly in a position to judge.</p>
<p>All these hanged men… maybe they had not personally killed anyone, had not deceived their spouses, only their king. He shook his head. He had dwelled on that long enough. There were more pressing issues now.</p>
<p>“How has the day gone?” he asked.</p>
<p>Aramis barked out a mirthless laugh. “About as well as expected. No further deaths, at least, and no mutiny just yet.”</p>
<p>“You are a good commander.”</p>
<p>“Deputy.” Aramis slammed the bible down on the nightstand. “Maybe reading that will do you some good. Now come, if you can walk without making a fool of yourself. You must be tired of this room.”</p>
<p>Athos could and he did. Together they stepped into the yard where small groups of men sat in quiet conversation. Some nodded and waved in recognition, then returned to their gossip with newly formed opinions Athos did not care to know. He washed his arms and face at the pump. The cold water ran down his overheated skin and washed away some of the sticky nastiness. It still clung to the inside. He pumped more water to drink.</p>
<p>Aramis had found them a quiet corner. Athos’ stomach clenched at the sight of him sitting there, looking up expectantly. But what was the alternative? Go around speaking to all the men? Easier to face Aramis.</p>
<p>The failing light absolved him of the obligation to look at Aramis while they spoke. Given how their previous conversations had gone, Athos selected his words carefully, loathe to provoke another outburst.</p>
<p>“You have commanded this city for longer than I have now,” he said. “And without any obligation to do so. You have done the men, the country a great service, but this is not a burden I should have placed on you. I apologise for forcing you into this position.”</p>
<p>What had sounded earnest in his head came out stilted and detached. Not at all what he meant.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” he tried again. “I’ve fucked up.”</p>
<p>Aramis snorted. “That you did.”</p>
<p>They sat in silence, listening to a song being sung by a group around a campfire.</p>
<p>“How can I earn your forgiveness?” Athos asked eventually.</p>
<p>Aramis stretched out his long legs and leaned back to look up at the stars. “You will get it eventually. But it won’t happen in a hurry.”</p>
<p>“I know. I’m—”</p>
<p>“Why, Athos?”</p>
<p>There were two sets of answers to that question. The easy, rehearsed ones, and the deeper, truer ones. Aramis undoubtedly deserved the latter. But how could he give him that? What relevance did his small personal pain have here? What was his former life of luxury compared to everything that had come since, everything Aramis and Porthos had seen?</p>
<p>“The opportunity presented itself,” he said. “The day had been… difficult. And when I saw those bottles in my room, I thought some wine would help me sleep. My judgement has rarely been so poor.”</p>
<p>Except for that one time, that big, big time…</p>
<p>“No joke,” Aramis muttered. “Why didn’t you tell us how difficult it had been? I get it. I mean, really. Today has been… I have no idea how… but here I am, talking to you after talking to Porthos. You have options and they don’t all come in bottles.”</p>
<p>“How is Porthos?”</p>
<p>Aramis sighed. “We’re still talking about you here.”</p>
<p>“Aramis, please…”</p>
<p>“He’s alive. He’s talking to me. And God willing he’ll continue to do both.”</p>
<p>“The infection?”</p>
<p>“He’s weak with the fever and annoyed by it. I keep cleaning the wound and it <em>is </em>healing, but slowly, very slowly. It’s so deep I can hardly believe he’s as well as he is.”</p>
<p>And that was hard. The vulnerability was clear in his voice, the strain he was under seeing Porthos in that state, unable to spend as much time on caring for him as he usually would.</p>
<p>“He is blessed with an exceptional medic,” Athos said. “And tomorrow that medic will be able to dedicate his efforts to him.”</p>
<p>“Are you sure?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>Aramis kicked his outstretched feet against the dusty ground, raising small, colourless clouds. “Why now?” he asked. “You’ve been so good. It’s been such a long time I didn’t think it would…”</p>
<p>But Athos had disappointed that hope. The war hadn’t cured him.</p>
<p>“It had been a difficult day,” he repeated.</p>
<p>“You’ve had so many difficult days. At La Rochelle. Even before… You had to deal with me… and with Porthos’ illness and the whole drowning business. And you were never like that.”</p>
<p>“I never had the opportunity, sharing a tent and then a room with you two.”</p>
<p>Aramis’ head snapped around. “So it’s our fault now? We abandoned you and this happened, really?”</p>
<p>“No. There is no attribution of fault attached to this. It was merely a statement of fact. There was no way I could get myself into such a state.”</p>
<p>For a few minutes, Aramis was satisfied and they sat in silence, staring at the glimmer of candles and small fires all around. Then he scoffed.</p>
<p>“That makes no sense. You don’t drink like that to unwind from a hard day. I counted those bottles and that wasn’t… I know how much you can take and even for you that isn’t an amount you’d take for relaxation. There’s something you’re not telling me.”</p>
<p>“It was a bad day.”</p>
<p>“But why?”</p>
<p>“We’ve discussed this in great detail. None of us like siege warfare. You were taking care of the wounded; I was trying to stabilise the destroyed city. You took the aftermath better than I did.”</p>
<p>“You’re not having to bury them again, right?”</p>
<p>Athos nearly laughed at that. “On the contrary. I do not have permission to bury anyone. Their bodies must remain as a warning.”</p>
<p>“Well, you’re certainly not afraid of bodies, so that’s not it. Though it has to be gruesome.”</p>
<p>“It is,” Athos confirmed.</p>
<p>“You’re still not telling me everything.” Aramis huffed in annoyance. “What were you trying to forget?”</p>
<p>Forget. Like he could. Like she would let him, would leave him… Athos did not reply. What was there to say?</p>
<p>“You have to tell me,” Aramis said. “We made a deal, remember. No secrets.”</p>
<p>“No secrets that directly affect our abilities,” Athos said. “You made sure we specified that. And the only thing affecting me was giving in to the thirst that you know I have. That’s over now.”</p>
<p>“So you won’t drink again?”</p>
<p>“No wine from now on. I have clearly had my share and it harms you and the other men. I cannot ask for discipline from the men and have none myself.”</p>
<p>That impressed Aramis. Shut him up for a while. As well it should because Athos had not the faintest idea how he could possibly keep that promise. He drank some water, swirled it around in his mouth as if he was tasting the finest vintage. It wasn’t bad. Cool and clear water from some underground well. But it wasn’t wine and no matter the taste, it would never suffice.</p>
<p>“What has that sort of power over you?” Aramis was like a cat with a mouse. Let it run for a bit only to pounce again.</p>
<p>“A memory,” Athos said. “An event in my past. Surely you know what that’s like.”</p>
<p>Aramis hummed in the affirmative, but still did not take the hint. “I also know that it’s better to share,” he said. “Tell me?”</p>
<p>Why wouldn’t he give up? Athos clicked his tongue. “You never share either.”</p>
<p>“What?” Aramis had the cheek to act surprised. “I’m more than happy to if anyone asks.”</p>
<p>Athos laughed, just once, short and hard. “Sure, your conquests and misadventures of the bedroom.”</p>
<p>“Mostly adventures, to be fair. But that’s just what everyone asks me about so that’s what I share. Ask me about something else and I’ll tell you.”</p>
<p>“Sure, because you know that by now I know about as much about the massacre as you remember.”</p>
<p>“Really? You think I’m just that?” Aramis huffed. “Honestly, give me a bit more credit.”</p>
<p>Of course he was. Childhood stories and the war. They’d been over that. But it wasn’t like Aramis had anything like the personal trauma of sentencing his own wife to death for murdering his brother. Which Athos obviously did not hold against him.</p>
<p>“Ask me,” Aramis said. “Ask me and I share, and then you’ll do the same.”</p>
<p>Only he wouldn’t. She had already invaded his new life in the form of a memory, he did not need her coming between him and his friends. Only one way out of this. Ask him something he wouldn’t share. He had asked for it.</p>
<p>“Captain Tréville has alluded to both of us at different times being tempted to die by our own hands. When did you get closest to acting on that urge?”</p>
<p>“At dawn on a Sunday in August 1625.”</p>
<p>The speed and precision should not have surprised him so much.</p>
<p>“Why then?”</p>
<p>“Five months after Savoy I had run out of excuses. My hands still shook too much to shoot well and I was a liability. Nobody cared much about the crazy survivor anymore, but I was holding Porthos back and reminded Tréville of something he wasn’t to blame for. You had arrived and were clearly about to become the best musketeer. No need for me.”</p>
<p>“That’s not—”</p>
<p>“Don’t tell me your suicide plans are perfectly rational.”</p>
<p>Of course not. Athos knew the difference between the internal and the external perspective all too well. But Aramis… Athos had known him back then. Known and respected him as a senior musketeer and Porthos’ companion.</p>
<p>“How did you…?”</p>
<p>He replied. He actually answered the question. And that… He had not thought that possible. The details were so sharp they stung. For a while, Athos could not speak. He stared at Aramis. In the dark it was easy to imagine him with fewer scars and without any grey in his hair. He could picture the scene. The city waking slowly at the rising of a blood-red sun. And he admired that courage, that clarity of mind.</p>
<p>“I would not have the nerve to do it in the morning,” he admitted.</p>
<p>Aramis turned to him and Athos caught the glint of teeth as he smiled. “Clearly, neither do I.”</p>
<p>“Why didn’t you go through with it?” Athos asked. He could have argued that the reasons Aramis had given were not true, but that would have been a lie. While he did not now nor would have then agreed, he saw what Aramis meant.</p>
<p>Aramis remained silent for long enough to make Athos wonder if he had finally crossed an invisible line. Then he sighed. “It would have been… after everything it would have been terrible for Tréville to lose me to that Spanish attack after all. I couldn’t be so cruel.”</p>
<p>He couldn’t. But Athos… How cruel would it be for Captain Tréville to learn about him, to know that the man he had championed and supported all those years was such a failure? Such an immoral, incompetent… How could he do that to him?</p>
<p>“How about you?” Aramis asked. “When have you been closest?”</p>
<p>It was so easy. Suddenly, he was sure that Aramis wouldn’t judge, that he too had known despair and would understand. Suddenly, Athos was sure he could trust him, could tell him about his brother, his wife, and it all being his own fault. He should unburden himself, should let go, because Aramis, too, knew regret.</p>
<p>But what if…</p>
<p>If Aramis…</p>
<p>“Was it about the woman, the one you loved?”</p>
<p>The one he loved. There was so much sympathy in Aramis’ tone. How many conversations had he had with Porthos? How many tales of romance had the made up? The woman, the one you loved… They had cast him as the loving husband hit by terrible tragedy. Not as her killer.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Discipline. Discipline was good.</p>
<p>Athos rose at five. Washed and dressed and ate. A quick survey of the situation, recording any changes that had occurred through the night. Morning muster at six. Tasks for the men were not hard to find, but many were too badly wounded to do much. He split the rest into four groups. The strongest rode out to gather supplies. The second group guarded the camp. The third tended to the wounded under Aramis’ direction. The final group took care of chores around the camp, cleaning and cooking and exercising the horses. Bernard worked with them.</p>
<p>He didn’t break for lunch. When he wasn’t working alongside the men, he gathered any new information he could find. The safety and wellbeing of these men were in his hands. He had to be meticulous. They all thought the capture of Alès would only be a matter of time, but they could not know for sure. Things could always go ill. They had to be prepared for that possibility. Athos worked to ensure he would be ready to supply relief troops or food if required. That they were able to withstand an attack if one should come though he wasn’t sure who would attack or what they would attack them for.</p>
<p>It was good to be prepared. Kept the men busy. And himself. It wasn’t pointless if there was something to prepare for, however remote the possibility.</p>
<p>In the late afternoon he made his rounds. Talked to as many of the men as he could. Captain Tréville had taught him the importance of a personal connection to maintain discipline.</p>
<p>Discipline. Discipline was important.</p>
<p>Boredom was poison. An idle mind invited all sorts of trouble. They were the dregs of the army now, the ones left behind, but they had something left to give. Nothing much, admittedly, but still something.</p>
<p>The first day went well. They welcomed him back eagerly, like they had no idea what a wreck of a man he was. Subsequent days… well, they had to be better than the alternative.</p>
<p>True to his word, he did not drink. Would not do that to them, would not give her that even when every fibre of his being yearned for wine.</p>
<p>Dinner signalled an end to the day that he did not want to acknowledge. He staved it off by surrounding himself with the leaders of the various factions. Let them air all their grievances, voice their concerns, listened to everything, everyone. Put one more question, one more plan between himself and all the wine bottles being passed around. Built up his defences.</p>
<p>One by one, the men left, satisfied. By the time Athos looked up, all the plates had been cleaned and everything put in order in the kitchen. Left without anything to do, he set out to find Aramis. Up the stairs, putting as much weight on his foot as he could. Was he walking steadily? He hoped so. It was painful, but it was yet another element of discipline. No weakness now. He could do this.</p>
<p>He poked his head into Porthos and Aramis’ room. The lights were off with no Aramis in sight. Athos stepped back to continue his search.</p>
<p>“Aramis?” Porthos’ voice was rough with sleep.</p>
<p>Athos cursed silently. “Just me,” he said.</p>
<p>“Athos!” Porthos shifted on the bed, trying to lift his head. “Come round to where I can see you.”</p>
<p>“Do you need anything?”</p>
<p>“Nah,” Porthos said. “Had my supper and Aramis gave me something to sleep.”</p>
<p>“Where is Aramis?”</p>
<p>“He’s with that man. He had to take his leg off today, poor sod.”</p>
<p>Ah yes… yes, he knew that. How had he not remembered? Was he really that ignorant of his men’s health, of his friend’s work?</p>
<p>“How are you?” Porthos asked. “How’s that foot?”</p>
<p>“Still attached.” Athos sat down on the chair facing Porthos.</p>
<p>“You feeling better?”</p>
<p>What had Aramis told him? “Yes, much better today.” That should be neutral enough no matter which version Porthos had heard. No need to worry him further. Not after Aramis’ reaction. His very justified reaction. No need to burden Porthos with it. </p>
<p>Porthos gave him a lopsided smile. “Good…”</p>
<p>“How are you?”</p>
<p>His upper body was still swathed in bandages, so evidently not too well.</p>
<p>“Aramis says it’s healing well.”</p>
<p>Was it or was that just what he said? Was there anything Athos could have done, should have done? Anything he missed?</p>
<p>“Are you in pain?”</p>
<p>“Nah, it’s all good… just sleepy…” Porthos let his head sink down onto the pillow.</p>
<p>And if Aramis had given him something to make him sleep, then it was probably not because he was in no pain at all. How could he be fine with a great big hole in his back? And now Aramis wasn’t even there to look after him.</p>
<p>“Can I get you anything?”</p>
<p>“All good… if you… if you don’t mind, I’m gonna… think I’ll just…” Porthos’ voice drifted off into a soft mumble.</p>
<p>“Sleep.” Athos looked down at him wishing there was some way to switch places. He should have taken that wound. Porthos would be much more useful now, not adding to Aramis’ worries.</p>
<p>He found Aramis hunched over on a chair, face buried in his hands.</p>
<p>“Aramis.” He kept his voice low to not disturb the soldier sleeping on the bed, the bandaged stump of his leg propped up on pillows.</p>
<p>Aramis dragged his hands down his face as he looked up. His sleeves were splattered with blood and his eyes ringed so dark that he might well have been in a fistfight.</p>
<p>“Come in,” he said. “Don’t think we’ll wake poor Maurice here.”</p>
<p>“That bad?”</p>
<p>“Explosion had torn his foot.” Aramis shook his head. “I tried but… It was this or his life.”</p>
<p>Athos put a hand on his shoulder. “You gave him a chance.”</p>
<p>“God willing…”</p>
<p>“Is there anything else to be done for him?”</p>
<p>“Wait.” Aramis leaned forward to tuck the light blanket tighter around the man’s body. “He’s weakened by blood loss and still needs to fight off the fever. Sleep might do him good. The longer, the better.”</p>
<p>“Do you need any supplies?”</p>
<p>Aramis sighed. “I wish there was anything I could give him that would help for sure. Keep him comfortable, keep him fed, keep the wound clean… But supplies? Prayers, that’s all.”</p>
<p>“Shouldn’t you get some sleep?” It was impossible to miss that Aramis swayed where he sat. Whether from the aftereffects of his deafness or sheer exhaustion, Athos didn’t dare to guess.</p>
<p>“I don’t want him waking up alone.”</p>
<p>“Doesn’t he have some friends who could sit with him?”</p>
<p>“They were at the centre of the explosion.” The sadness in Aramis’ eyes was so profound, Athos wanted to reach out and embrace him. But there was also a wariness there that made him question that the comfort he could offer would have been welcome. He had ruined so much the previous day.</p>
<p>“I’ll stay with him while you get some sleep.”</p>
<p>Aramis shook his head, but instantly seemed to regret it and closed his eyes. “You need your sleep as well.”</p>
<p>“I’ve had plenty. You know I’m not one to sleep early.”</p>
<p>“You’ve had quite a day and you need… we all need you to be well tomorrow.”</p>
<p>“I will be. Go and sleep so you can look after your patients in the morning.”</p>
<p>Aramis slowly got to his feet, but hesitated. “I shouldn’t…”</p>
<p>“Tell me what I can do for him.”</p>
<p>“There’s broth to drink if he wakes. I added some herbs to help him sleep. If he bleeds profusely or… I shouldn’t. He might get distressed.”</p>
<p>“I’ll call you if I cannot calm him or if I spot any bleeding.”</p>
<p>“I’m not sure…”</p>
<p>“Go. Go and see to Porthos.”</p>
<p>“Is he…?” Aramis’ head snapped up, which threw him off-balance so much that Athos reached out to steady him.</p>
<p>“He’s fine. I saw him earlier. Your herbs are working well. He’s sleeping like a babe.”</p>
<p>Aramis leaned into his arm for a moment. One glorious moment of Athos being the support he should have been all along.</p>
<p>“Only a few hours,” Aramis said. “I’ll relieve you. When you get tired, come and get me. I’ll be fine. I just…”</p>
<p>“Get some sleep.”</p>
<p>“Promise you’ll call me.”</p>
<p>“I’ll call you if he needs you.” And for no other reason. Athos knew he wouldn’t sleep that night. He might as well make himself useful.</p>
<p>The creaking of the silent house around him and the soft breathing of the man, Maurice, were the sounds of Athos’ night. They weren’t enough, of course, to silence his mind, but anything was better than going back to his room. There wasn’t much for him to do, but the reminder that he was guarding this unfortunate man, that he was his only comfort and that he might well become his only hope of getting Aramis’ attention on time, of surviving this night… That was enough to encourage Athos to not give in to the constant refrain of his thoughts. Wine, wine, wine, wine… He knew it would calm him, but he also knew what else it would do. Not something he could risk, not something we was comfortable doing while he had a duty to this man. To Aramis and Porthos. To all of them.</p>
<p>The light burned down and Athos went in search of another, nodding a greeting to a man he met staggering sleepily to the outhouse.</p>
<p>“G’night, captain.”</p>
<p>“Good night, soldier.”</p>
<p>He didn’t bother to correct him. Most likely he would attribute their meeting to a dream come morning. Captain. The word still sounded strange to him. Not something that suited him. And yet… he was fulfilling the role, wasn’t he? Just like anyone else would have. Not as well as Aramis or Porthos could have done.</p>
<p>Maurice tossed his head on the pillow, growing more and more restless. Eventually, he groaned loudly.</p>
<p>“You’re safe,” Athos said. “The medic looked after you.”</p>
<p>The poor man’s eyes blinked open and roved aimlessly around the room so Athos stood up and got closer.</p>
<p>“Sleep now. No one will harm you here.”</p>
<p>“Who…” The man’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Who are you?”</p>
<p>“Athos of the King’s Musketeers. I’m the commander at Privas.”</p>
<p>“Why…?”</p>
<p>Why indeed… Not something to discuss with Maurice. “You’re not alone,” Athos said. “The medic was here before and now I am. We won’t leave you.”</p>
<p>As long as he didn’t leave them. He did look dreadful.</p>
<p>“Have some broth,” he said. “It’ll keep up your strength.”</p>
<p>They’d done this for Athos in the past. Held him up and helped him drink. Aramis must be doing it for Porthos now. While Athos… He tightened his hold on the man’s shoulder. He was doing this, was doing something at last.</p>
<p>The man sank back onto the pillow, sweat covering his face. “It’s my foot,” he said. “It hurts. It was injured in the explosion.”</p>
<p>Athos did not have the heart to acquaint him with the truth, his daunting future as a cripple. “Sleep now,” he said. “It’s the middle of the night.”</p>
<p>Fever-bright eyes looked up at him. “It hurts.”</p>
<p>“I know. We’ve all suffered injuries.”</p>
<p>“I—” Maurice broke off in a groan. “I can’t…”</p>
<p>“All you need to do is rest. I shall take care of all else. Just rest.”</p>
<p>The man’s breath came as a harsh panting and his clenched fingers spasmed on the bed. Athos took his hand, which felt clammy.</p>
<p>“I’ve got you,” he said. Repeating, always repeating what they had told him on multiple occasions. At least he had learned some humanity.</p>
<p>Maurice squeezed his fingers and Athos squeezed back, steady and reassuring, or so he hoped. Trying somehow to pass a surety he did not feel through their joined hands. What hope did this man have if he survived? A burden on his family if he could reach them and they would have him. More likely, he’d be a beggar for life. But where? There would not be much life in Privas for years to come. Ruminating his fate provided a useful distraction from the constant yearning for wine and Athos spent pleasant minutes imagining future disasters rather than those that lay in the past.</p>
<p>Soft steps on the corridor made Athos shift in his seat and unclasp their hands, which a sleeping Maurice did not notice. He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. It had to be the small hours of the morning, the time when the attention of many guards faltered. Impossible to be too careful.</p>
<p>Aramis padded into the room, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and Athos relaxed.</p>
<p>“How’d it go?” Aramis yawned.</p>
<p>“He woke once, in some pain, and fell asleep again after a cup of broth.”</p>
<p>Aramis nodded and felt the man’s forehead. “About as good as expected.”</p>
<p>“Go back to sleep,” Athos said. “I’ve got this.”</p>
<p>Aramis sat down with a grunt and put his feet up on the bed where Maurice’s leg should have been. “Given you the shorter half of the night already. You’ll ruin all remains of fairness and decency I still have if you make me leave now.”</p>
<p>“Couldn’t risk that.”</p>
<p>“Go. I promise I won’t snore at muster.” Aramis yawned so widely his yaw cracked as he waved Athos off.</p>
<p>To his surprise, Athos slept. He had barely started to think about his woes when he dropped off into dreamless sleep, waking up at first light to do it all again.</p>
<p>The second day was harder. He kept the same routine because discipline, discipline was important. But he was moving through mud, every step, every action, every thought a drain on his already depleted reserves. The constant thrum of wine, wine, wine grew louder and louder in his head even as he silenced it with work. Fortunately, there was plenty to be done. Questions, so many questions… But they gave him something to focus on, something to fill his head with that didn’t come from a bottle.</p>
<p>He was asked about Maurice. For a man whose friends had been killed, there seemed an extraordinary amount of people interested in the vigil they had kept. Athos deflected most questions. These were Aramis’ to answer as he was the one doing all the work. But he struggled to repress his disappointment when Aramis told him that there had been no shortage of volunteers for the following nights. Another area where he did not contribute.</p>
<p>That evening, there was nothing. With only the sickest men in the house, the farm went quiet after dinner. Athos tried to drag out his interactions with everyone, but soon they disappeared to their various camps and lodgings. Porthos was sleeping when he looked in on him and a tired-looking Aramis bade him goodnight as soon as he had instructed all the ones sitting with the badly injured men on when to call him during the night. Athos suddenly realised just how broken Aramis’ limited amount of sleep must have been. Stupid of him to not make that connection earlier. Of course, not everybody’s work ended after dinner.</p>
<p>His own did, though. When he ran out of anything he could feasibly do, he retired to his room. A rather full day on no more than three hours of sleep was starting to take its toll. His body ached and so did his mind. He lay down, hoping for sleep. Maybe it would come as easily as it had the night before.</p>
<p>Of course it wouldn’t. The wardrobe where he had found those bottles of wine loomed like a dark spectre in the corner. Even with his eyes closed he could feel its presence. This same bed, this same room… What other things loomed just out of sight? He knew… the hanged men, the hanged woman, and both times it had been his duty… That was all his duty ever got him, pain and suffering. All that discipline he tried to treasure, it was nothing, nothing at all… Death, death that’s what she got, what they got, what he’d bring to everyone in the end because that was what he did and that was everything he would ever do. Hadn’t he already harmed Aramis and Porthos and all these injured men? How many more would die and how was he failing them all…</p>
<p>Somewhere, in the distance, her laugh.</p>
<p>Faint, at first.</p>
<p>He folded the pillow over his head.</p>
<p>That didn’t muffle her, but it surrounded him with the stench of two nights ago, which did not help in the least.</p>
<p>Why was he obsessing about this? Why could he not wait to have his breakdown when he had time for it? He’d already done it here once. There was no space for another. 6 o’clock was muster. He had to be at muster. He could not leave these men alone. He could not burden Aramis. Not again.</p>
<p>Discipline.</p>
<p>Discipline.</p>
<p>God damn it, discipline.</p>
<p>It became a plea, not a reassurance. He could not do this. He had to stay in the present. Sleep. Be ready to face the next day, to give his best. His best like when he failed his brother, his family… Like his best when he…</p>
<p>No. None of that. He could wipe his mind clean. Imagine the small slate his tutor had given him to practice his writing. Wipe it. Make it clean and black and unblemished. Blackness. Blackness was good. No trace of anything. Nothing remained of his previous mistakes.</p>
<p>She smirked.</p>
<p>She didn’t speak, but he knew… Oh she would love this… The useless comte who didn’t understand, who didn’t know, who had nothing of any value once he was stripped of his titles and lands… Nothing, that’s what he was. Nothing.</p>
<p>He could not take it. He needed light.</p>
<p>An empty mind in the light proved to be no less torturous. He contemplated riding out. Pretend he was inspecting the guards. But he did not want to undermine any trust the men might inexplicably have in him by being overly controlling. More importantly, he did not want to stumble across one of the hanging trees in the dark.</p>
<p>In the house he might encounter Aramis. Or worse, he might encounter a bottle of wine and then Aramis. Not a solution either. He had to stay put, he had to overcome this before it overcame him. He wasn’t a child who could not go to sleep without his governess.</p>
<p>He had never slept well as a child either. The bliss when he had finally learned that wine could free him of that particular affliction, that he could forget so easily…</p>
<p>But it came at a cost. A cost so high he was unable to make everyone else pay it.</p>
<p>He grabbed that Huguenot bible again. Anything to occupy his mind. Start in Genesis. How unfamiliar the words of the verses he had read dozens of times… Not that his family had been particularly religious, but bible study was still an important part of the education of any young nobleman. Like in so many things, the façade was more important than what lay behind it. Nobody asked him to believe, but he had to keep up appearances.</p>
<p>Appearances… he should have kept up appearances… but there he was, murderer of his own wife, run off to join the musketeers to better kill himself through sword or bottle… Appearances, appearances… No hiding behind appearances now. Aramis saw him for who he was and oh, how little he knew…</p>
<p>He needed more.</p>
<p>Genesis 1</p>
<p>
  <em>In the beginning God created heaven, and earth. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>And the earth was void and empty, and darkness was upon the face of the deep; and the spirit of God moved over the waters. </em>
</p>
<p>How appropriate. Void and empty… darkness… and a face…</p>
<p>Focus.</p>
<p>Discipline.</p>
<p>He could not afford…</p>
<p>
  <em>In principio creavit Deus cælum et terram. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Terra autem erat inanis et vacua, et tenebræ erant super faciem abyssi: et spiritus Dei ferebatur super aquas. </em>
</p>
<p>Was he simply reciting from memory now or actually translating?</p>
<p>He flipped through the book, trying to find something less familiar.</p>
<p>Translate it.</p>
<p>Focus.</p>
<p>That felt disorderly, so back to the beginning.</p>
<p>
  <em>Be light made. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Fiat lux. </em>
</p>
<p>No light for him… Only this small chance to keep himself focussed to somehow, somehow ward off the past. The present. The future in which he failed them all again.</p>
<p>He forced his mind to focus on the unfamiliar words and their more customary Latin translation. Focus, focus, focus.</p>
<p>His eyes burned, straining to make out the letters on the thin paper. He hunched over, getting closer and closer to the page. Keep reading, keep translating, because somewhere at the edge of his mind…</p>
<p>Discipline.</p>
<p>He could make it through this with discipline.</p>
<p>Make it through this night and the day that followed.</p>
<p>He was hollow by then.</p>
<p>Nothing left except for the yearning. He shook with it. Hid that effect. He could not let her affect him like that. Still, he was glad that he did not need to fire a gun or draw his sword. His hand was shaking. Everything was. Shaking like Aramis used to only he’d had a reason and Athos only had himself to blame. Shaking, shaking, because she had done this, was still doing this, and he let her. His fault. He was to blame. He needed to get a grip. He needed to... Somehow… something…</p>
<p>Discipline.</p>
<p>Discipline.</p>
<p>He had to.</p>
<p>For them if not for himself.</p>
<p>Because he could not let her harm them as well.</p>
<p>He couldn’t go back to… not now. He couldn’t. One day, when they were back in Paris. Then…</p>
<p>He had… the previous winter he had done it without harming anyone. Back in Paris, it was fine. His own room, the garrison, the familiar taverns and streets. They had all been celebrating their return from the war. Even Captain Tréville had accepted that Athos had more cause for celebration than most. Nobody asked what he discovered at the bottom of the fifth or sixth bottle of wine.</p>
<p>The days became indistinguishable. Time was marked only by the progress he made through the books of the bible each night. The fear never left. Fear that someone would discover the state he was in. The shaking, the weakness… He could not eat without feeling nausea so he limited eating as much as he could to avoid anything that would make Aramis think he had broken his promise. Maybe the lack of nourishment made his head pound constantly. Maybe the fear made him sweat. The fear… Fear he would break his promise. Fear he couldn’t withstand her assaults any longer. Fear he would let her ruin it all. Fear he would let her take these men away like she had taken his brother, that she would take this life like she had taken his last.</p>
<p>Then one night she sat on the bed. Beautiful as ever. The faint smell of flowers made his stomach churn. She didn’t speak, but she smiled. The temptress… Everything was silent, everyone in bed, and he didn’t know if it was time to sleep or time to wake, but he did know he was all alone, alone with her. He had never been able to withstand. Where would it lead? He could not… There she was. Smiled knowingly. She always knew. She knew the power she had over him. She knew he couldn’t refuse. She knew he didn’t know… he didn’t have…</p>
<p>He slammed his fist against his head.</p>
<p>She wasn’t there. She wasn’t real. He had killed her years ago. He wasn’t that man anymore. He was better now. He had a different life, a different duty, he had people around him who cared…</p>
<p>She laughed.</p>
<p>Loud and shrill, it tore at his ears, crushed his aching head.</p>
<p>It hurt. It hurt. It hurt.</p>
<p>He had to…</p>
<p>She laughed. Like he could do anything.</p>
<p>She laughed and laughed and laughed.</p>
<p>She knew.</p>
<p>But she didn’t know that he was a different man now. That he loved differently. Not the all-consuming blaze of his love for her. A steady, warming flame. He wasn’t who he used to be. He was better.</p>
<p>She didn’t believe him. Laughed.</p>
<p>She knew that underneath it all he was still weak.</p>
<p>Shaking like a young boy before his first fight.</p>
<p>Shaking. Weak.</p>
<p>She wasn’t there. But she was.</p>
<p>She was there and she was tightening the noose around his neck this time. She would end him like he had ended her.</p>
<p>He shook his head, but she didn’t shift.</p>
<p>She had to be an illusion; a visitation conjured up by his feverish mind.</p>
<p>He reached out and she shrank back. Mocking. Like he could touch her, destroy her. He had tried and he had failed and she was still there to haunt him, she was still the one who pulled the strings. He, her puppet, even now. She, his mistress, even now, guiding him to his ruin.</p>
<p>How could he command men when he was not in command of his own mind?</p>
<p>Command. Oh, how she laughed. Like he could command anything.</p>
<p>She laughed and laughed and laughed.</p>
<p>She was wrong.</p>
<p>She was so wrong. He could do this. He was doing this. He just needed her out of his mind, out of his room. He just needed…</p>
<p>He had to. It was this or slowly going mad in his room. He had to sleep. He had to be well-rested for the next day. He was already not at his best. Everyone was expecting him to keep his head, to make good decisions on their behalf, and he was not delivering that at the moment. He couldn’t disappoint them because of these waking nightmares his mind conjured when he knew very well that they held no truth. He was responsible for his own well-being and for fixing the problem. And there was one proven, fast way to do that.</p>
<p>After he had made that decision, it wasn’t difficult. He’d break his promise, but he only broke the letter of it, not its spirit. Aramis needed him to be reliable in fulfilling his duty and he wasn’t. He would resolve the issue and be a better friend and a better leader without the unbidden interference of his wife’s spectral sneers.</p>
<p>He grabbed the first bottle of red he saw and unstopped it as he went. The sweet tang of his salvation wafted up to his nose. A single bottle. Drain it in one, sleep without dreams and apparitions, wake up refreshed, be the man they all deserved.</p>
<p>So simple.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Hey.”</p>
<p>Athos froze. Aramis padded down the stairs on bare feet.</p>
<p>“You want to come up?” Aramis rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck, half-way down the stairs. “Porthos is up and feeling alright and I thought—”</p>
<p>It was comical to watch his face change. He reacted like an actor on the stage, the way he exaggerated every motion and expression for the audience’s benefit. His eyes widened as his brows shot heavenwards. When his speech broke off, his mouth gaped open, his throat bobbed, and with a click of his teeth he snapped his jaw shut.</p>
<p>“You are not doing this,” he said. “You don’t want that.”</p>
<p>He had no idea. None at all of just how much Athos wanted this.</p>
<p>Athos’ fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle. To protect it or to use it as a weapon? One seemed as reasonable, as probable, as the other. If Aramis… He wouldn’t attack him, of course not, but if he… He did need…</p>
<p>“Upstairs.” Aramis’ voice was low, but he clearly enunciated each letter. In the space between them, tension hung like storm clouds ready to burst.</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>Aramis had no right to speak to Athos like that. Athos could… he <em>should</em> have him disciplined. That tone, that impertinence…</p>
<p>Silently, Aramis pointed up the stairs. His jaw ticked.</p>
<p>It wasn’t right. Aramis had no right to order him about. And yet…</p>
<p>Slowly, Athos lifted one foot, then the other. One step, a second… Up the stairs. He passed close enough to Aramis to feel him shake. If anyone wanted to use that bottle as a weapon, it was him. Not that that seemed such a bad idea. Being hit over the head with the bottle would give Athos the reprieve he sought. Some minutes of sweet unconsciousness—because he didn’t doubt that Aramis would hit him properly and in the right spot—and then, maybe, there’d be a new dawn for his tortured mind. The new start he needed, a day that hadn’t been invaded by her and that infernal smirk on her plush lips.</p>
<p>Every step sapped his strength. Aramis followed close behind, which made him aware of how slow he was. The bottle in his hand grew heavier with every step and dragged him down. He half wished that the floor would open up to send him straight to his ultimate destination. He knew what followed would not be nearly as pleasant as eternal hellfire and damnation.</p>
<p>He paused.</p>
<p>“Aramis, I—”</p>
<p>Immediately, Aramis was next to him, his breath hot on Athos’ face. “Go into Porthos’ room.” Once again, he spoke very clearly, very deliberately. “You don’t want this to happen out here.”</p>
<p>“Are you threatening me?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>It wasn’t the threat, whatever it was. Athos would never give in to a threat. It was… He would explain it. He wasn’t a child. He wasn’t their prisoner. He was perfectly capable of making his own decisions. He was… their friend, their commander and fellow musketeer, the one who had their back and they had his… There was no need to make a scene.</p>
<p>“Oh yes, you were still awake.” Porthos beamed at him. How little he knew…</p>
<p>The key squeaked in the lock as the bolt slid home, then jangled as Aramis dropped it into his pocket. Porthos’ face scrunched up with worry. His eyes raced from one to the other as he struggled to understand what was happening.</p>
<p>Athos stood rooted to the spot until Aramis shoved him forward.</p>
<p>“I found him with this.” Aramis’ fingers dug into Athos’ arm and shoved it up, still clutching the bottle.</p>
<p>If anyone ever wanted to carve a figure of disappointment personified, Porthos would have made a fine model. But of course people only ever carved justice and victory and other such banalities. Nobody wanted to see the reflection of their own guilt.</p>
<p>“But… why?”</p>
<p>Athos nearly laughed in his face. What world did he live in? What shiny, perfect reality? But laughter would probably enrage Aramis even further, so Athos shrugged.</p>
<p>Every part of Porthos’ face was suddenly dragged down by invisible weights, his eyes, his cheeks, his mouth, everything drooped. In a final touch of perfection, his eyes shone wet in the light. Bad, bad Athos, now he’d made Porthos cry.</p>
<p>Athos was tired of all this. What did they want? Was this to be some mockery of a trial or a child’s telling off? Aramis could just lock him in his room again, keep him hidden away until he had thought about his sins. As a boy, he had eventually learned to fake a convincing enough apology to spare them all the farce of that punishment, but he did not feel inclined to apologise now.</p>
<p>“What did you expect?” He shook off Aramis’ hand and raised the bottle all the way to his lip. He could tell this would be thirsty work. Easier to bear once he’d had what he wanted, once the shaking stopped and his mind was his own.</p>
<p>The bottle slammed against his teeth with a sharp clink. Instead of wine, he tasted blood, sweet and tangy in a different way. His fingers were still clutching the neck of the bottle, but the rest of it was gone, smashed to pieces on the floor. Precious liquid pooled everywhere.</p>
<p>Next to him, Aramis shook out his fist.</p>
<p>"We expected you to care."</p>
<p>Then Athos did laugh though it sounded more like the painful wheeze of a fatally injured man. "You think this is me not caring?"</p>
<p>“You made a promise, Athos.” Porthos still had that awful drooping look on his face. “No more wine.”</p>
<p>Athos shrugged. “And I broke it.” Hardly the first or the last time he would do that.</p>
<p>“You gave your word.”</p>
<p>Oh, right, like honour and all those beautiful things meant anything... Athos laughed again because what else could he do? Laugh at their naïveté. Honour… like he hadn’t hung the last shred of that from a tree four years ago.</p>
<p>“I don’t think this is a laughing matter.” Aramis sneered at him.</p>
<p>“I rather think it is.” Plow on, ignore the pain, don’t lose composure. Athos could do that. His upbringing had its benefits. He didn’t need to believe in something to do it. Far from it. They had no idea of the extent of matters he could laugh at if need be.</p>
<p>He watched Aramis’ mouth move as he tried to find words. He shook all over, worse than Athos himself, but for very different reasons. Athos waited for the tirade to begin. The dishonour, the shame he’d brought on the regiment… All things he could have avoided if Aramis hadn’t smacked the bottle out of his hand. One bottle, that was all it would take. Hardly too much to ask for.</p>
<p>“Why?” Porthos asked, before Aramis managed to put his anger into words.</p>
<p>“Because I’m a grown man and I get to decide when I take a nightcap. I do not require a governess to decide for me.”</p>
<p>Aramis let out an inarticulate shout, but Porthos held up a hand to silence him.</p>
<p>“Don’t you realise how much we’ve worried about you?”</p>
<p>That… that was clearly not an honourable move either.</p>
<p>“Stop, then,” Athos said. “I can look after myself.”</p>
<p>Her shrill laughter tore at his ears. Look after himself… Like he had ever been able to do that. Like he hadn’t gone straight from nurse to governess to tutor to wife… Only for Porthos to scrape whatever sorry pieces remained of him from the gutter and piece them back together into something resembling a man.</p>
<p>She loved that. The image of tearing him to shreds, the wounds still bleeding underneath his nice, polished exterior. She’d always been there, underneath the uniform, lurking, waiting for her moment when she could take everything from him again. His duty, his rank, and his family.</p>
<p>“You bastard!” Aramis shouted. “You arrogant—”</p>
<p>“Aramis, please…” Porthos sounded as tired as Athos felt and for better reasons. He was still heavily bandaged, the wound in his back probably far from healed.</p>
<p>“It hurts,” Porthos said. “That you don’t try at all.”</p>
<p>“That I don’t try? I tried for… for days.” However many it had been. He had lost count. Had it been a week? More than one day for sure. “I tried and it didn’t work.”</p>
<p>Porthos motioned for him to come closer, to sit on the bed, and Athos did not have the energy to refuse. Aramis remained standing, a glowering presence in the corner of the room.</p>
<p>“That’s not true,” Porthos said. “You were doing so well.”</p>
<p>Athos shook his head. As if… Nothing could be further from the truth. Yes, yes, so he couldn’t look after himself. He had proven that time and again. He could tell that he was falling to pieces and not even kind Porthos would be able to convince him that he had been doing well.</p>
<p>“You were.” Bless him for his insistence. “Aramis told me that all the men admire you so much and that they can’t stop praising you. And the boy who brings me food, he doesn’t shut up about you.”</p>
<p>Athos doubted that. Maybe one impressionable boy had been blinded by the word <em>musketeer</em>, but nobody else saw anything good in him. A nice attempt by Aramis to cheer Porthos up, nothing else.</p>
<p>“And Aramis told me how busy you’ve been.” He wouldn’t shut up, would he? “You talk to everyone and you see to all their needs. And don’t say you’re not because I can hear from up here that you’re constantly riding everywhere.”</p>
<p>That was his self-defence thwarted then. Athos clutched his forehead and dug his fingers into his eyes. Everything hurt. His sluggish brain throbbed and his tired eyes burned.</p>
<p>“That’s not a sign I’m doing well.” He murmured it into his own hand, too much of a coward to look at them. He wanted the oblivion of a wine-soaked sleep, but that relief wouldn’t come, not now and…  He couldn’t keep it up anymore. He couldn’t be praised for some imagined bravery when all he was was this, this wreck…</p>
<p>“What do you mean?”</p>
<p>Why was Porthos’ voice still so gentle? After he had admitted that he’d been hurt, he was still kind and Aramis was still there even though he clearly did not want to be. Why were they such good friends?</p>
<p>“When I’m busy it’s easier, it’s…” Athos choked on the words. “I can cope as long as I’m busy. At night I… I can’t.”</p>
<p>He did not look up. He knew they were looking at each other, having their silent discourse above his head. And he wanted to believe that there was no pity, no disgust in their eyes, but how could he? They had every right. He could not hold it against them.</p>
<p>The bed dipped as Aramis sat down next to him.</p>
<p>“What’s happening at night?” Aramis asked. His voice was rough and of course his mind would go there, of course he would assume that Athos struggled with a trauma like his own. The aftermath of Privas, or maybe La Rochelle coming back to him… something worthy of a musketeer.</p>
<p>Athos shook his head. “It’s nothing.”</p>
<p>Aramis breathed deeply and Athos could hear his anger still boiling underneath his calm words. “You are not the sort of man to be thrown off course by nothing. Is it about the situation here or is it something from the past?”</p>
<p>“Nothing about here,” Athos said quickly. Nothing that they had to worry about, nothing that would burden them. He had to… he owed them that much. “From the past. There was… a woman… once. I have been reminded of her recently and…”</p>
<p>And he could not cope with the guilt. Guilt over what he’d done. Guilt because he felt that guilt.</p>
<p>Aramis nodded. “We all know how that goes.”</p>
<p>“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” Porthos said.</p>
<p>Athos looked up. The undeserved compassion in their eyes pained him. They had no idea.</p>
<p>“Do you want to talk about it?” Porthos asked. Because of course he would.</p>
<p>Athos shook his head. “Best to let this particular demon rest.”</p>
<p>“Don’t let her make you drink though.”</p>
<p>“I’m not.” He could reassure them of that. She wasn’t making him drink. He was drinking—or was at least <em>trying</em> to drink—to make her disappear, or if she wouldn’t do that, to at least silence her.</p>
<p>“Why this then?” Aramis took the neck of the bottle out of Athos’ hand and dropped it on the floor. “Don’t hurt yourself.”</p>
<p>With the glass or with what had been inside of it? Athos stretched his stiff fingers. He hadn’t realised he’d clutched the bottle all that time. What else had he missed?</p>
<p>“Why not?” Athos tried to wet his cracked lips with his tongue, but it was just as dry. “It provides a solution to a problem.”</p>
<p>“Have you considered looking for alternative solutions?”</p>
<p>“There are none.” He had told them that he’d tried for days. And he’d told them the cause wasn’t a new one. They should be able to trust that he had exhausted all options.</p>
<p>“Really?” The bed groaned and then the floorboards squeaked when Aramis jumped up. “You’re in trouble and the only thing you can think of is your thrice-damned wine?”</p>
<p>“It’s the only way.”</p>
<p>“How dare you say that?” Aramis was screaming now, causing a scene. Athos didn’t look up. “We’re both here for you. I’m working my arse off to save yours. And Porthos is right here. He’s been here this entire time and not once did you think… you never even tried to talk to us. We could have helped!”</p>
<p>They couldn’t. This wasn’t their battle to fight, this wasn’t their war, this was nothing but his own… this wasn’t musketeers’ business. This was Athos and Athos alone.</p>
<p>“You do nothing,” Aramis continued. “Just crawl back into your bottle like… like…”</p>
<p>“Like you don’t trust us at all,” Porthos supplied.</p>
<p>His voice was rough and Athos knew that if he were to look up, he’d see tears.</p>
<p>“Of course, I do,” Athos said. Of course. Trusted them with his life, with everything else.</p>
<p>Aramis laughed, shrill and ugly. “You have a funny way of showing it.”</p>
<p>“We worry about you,” Porthos said.</p>
<p>“Don’t,” Athos said. “I’m not injured. I’m not the one—”</p>
<p>“Exactly! You are not the one with a great big hole in his back. You’re not the one burning with fever.”</p>
<p>“I’m not—”</p>
<p>Aramis ignored Porthos’ interruption and only shouted louder. “You’re not the one I was scared would die here. But you go and you… you…”</p>
<p>“It’s not like—”</p>
<p>“You poisoned yourself with wine the other night.”</p>
<p>Small droplets of spit landed on Athos’ face. His ears rang with the truth of that.</p>
<p>“I operate on men every day; I sit with them every night. I can’t even look after Porthos properly even though he’s… he could have died and I wouldn’t have known. And then you go and nearly kill yourself!”</p>
<p>“I wasn’t. I never kept you from your duty. I never asked for any of this. Leave me be if you can’t be bothered with me. Leave me alone.”</p>
<p>“Damn you!” Aramis kicked the bed, jolting them both.</p>
<p>“We won’t do that,” Porthos said. “Never. We worry about you. It’s not that safe here. It’s not like you’re back home in Paris.”</p>
<p>“Because Paris is so safe.”</p>
<p>“Safer than the middle of Huguenot land.”</p>
<p>“The middle of a royal army.”</p>
<p>“An army you leave leaderless.”</p>
<p>“An army I leave in your more than capable hands.”</p>
<p>“I’m not capable!”</p>
<p>“Shhh,” Porthos said urgently. “Everyone will hear.”</p>
<p>“Let them! Let them hear their commander—”</p>
<p>“Aramis!”</p>
<p>Aramis hissed out a breath between his teeth, but continued more quietly. “It’s not my command.”</p>
<p>“It should be,” Athos said reasonably. “You have years of seniority on me.”</p>
<p>“And a hell lot of good that did me. Command doesn’t suit me. Accept it.”</p>
<p>“It suited you fine that day when I… Just take it and be done with it.”</p>
<p>“You’re not giving up command so you can punish yourself or whatever you think you’re doing,” Porthos said.</p>
<p>“You’re definitely not giving it to me.” Aramis paced across the room. “What do you think will happen if you can’t be in charge anymore? Sure, I can cover for a day, but not regularly. There’s no backup, no Tréville to come to our rescue. You’re in charge of this city, like it or not. If you can’t do it, then I’ll have to step up.”</p>
<p>“And you’ll do fine.” Athos stared at his knees, kept staring even when Aramis stopped pacing right in front of him.</p>
<p>“I won’t.” Aramis’ voice was a whisper now. “It’ll end in disaster. They won’t… they won’t take kindly to some jumped up musketeer who wasn’t actually put in charge by anyone. It’ll… it’ll go wrong. It’ll… the last time I was in charge, I lost everything.”</p>
<p>Athos did look up when Aramis’ voice broke. He watched Porthos reach out with one arm and pull Aramis close to him. He watched Aramis bury his fingers in Porthos’ hair while he dropped his head and gnawed on his lower lip.</p>
<p>“I’m not good at it, Athos.”</p>
<p>“Neither am I.”</p>
<p>“Yes, you are. You are an excellent leader.”</p>
<p>Athos snorted out a rough laugh. “Don’t feel obliged to say that to rescue me from myself.”</p>
<p>“It’s true,” Porthos said. “Nobody likes you cause you’re funny and charming. They like you cause you’re good at leading them and they trust you.”</p>
<p>“They trust Aramis with their lives,” Athos said. “As you do. Are doing now. So what’s your point?”</p>
<p>“That’s different.”</p>
<p>“I fail to see any difference.”</p>
<p>“Nobody outside of this room trusts me with their lives,” Aramis said. “Nobody out there does.”</p>
<p>“Right. So that’s why they constantly let you save them from certain death.”</p>
<p>“We can go right now. Ask them. They’d all pick you. They’d pick me to have fun with, definitely, but you for anything serious. Me to stitch them back together, but not to lead them into a battle or make sure they're fed or housed or paid. Or any of the other things I don’t even realise need to happen.”</p>
<p>“That’s nothing special.”</p>
<p>“It is.”</p>
<p>“Both of you could… Given the chance you’d do the same.” And they wouldn’t be shaking with need while doing it. He slipped his hands under his legs to keep them from view. The yearning…</p>
<p>“We wouldn’t,” Porthos said. “We couldn’t.”</p>
<p>“It’s quite rare,” Aramis said. “I’ve had my fair share of commanders and… there are very few blessed with your talent.”</p>
<p>Blessed… He wasn’t. Cursed. Yes. He was cursed. There was no blessing to be had. Only her curse. He shook his head. “I’m sorry… I can’t.”</p>
<p>He was sorry. He didn’t want to disappoint Porthos. He didn’t want to make Aramis angry.</p>
<p>“You are doing it. You are doing so much. And we’ll help. Tell us what you need and we’ll help.”</p>
<p>Need… He <em>did </em>need. He needed so badly. The smell of the spilled wine lingered in the room, teased him, tempted him… He’d be on his knees in a moment, licking the floorboards like a dog.</p>
<p>He couldn’t. Years ago, back in Paris… Aramis had shattered dozens of bottles that day. He’d stormed out of Athos’ room and Porthos had explained… And here they were again. Athos scaring Aramis, making him fear for his life when he really did not need that on top of everything else. He didn’t want to but he needed…</p>
<p>“I can’t,” he said. “I tried. I… I can’t take another night of…”</p>
<p>Of what? He could hardly tell them he was seeing the spectre of his wife.</p>
<p>“The wine helps you sleep?”</p>
<p>“Yes!” So desperate, so despicable. His whole body was shaking. No hiding it now. Shaking. Not from cold, not from fear, but from need. He needed… He needed so desperately…</p>
<p>“Oh damn it…” Porthos leaned forward, Aramis hissing at him to be careful. Athos braced himself for a hug, for Porthos’ disgust when he felt the cold sweat on his sticky skin, but Porthos didn’t touch him. Instead, he withdrew a bottle of wine from underneath the bed.</p>
<p>He held it out.</p>
<p>Athos stared at it.</p>
<p>He salivated like the dog he was.</p>
<p>He swallowed. He couldn’t. His eyes darted from Porthos to Aramis to the bottle and back. He didn’t want to do this to them, didn’t want to hurt them further. But… The bottle. Porthos. Aramis. The bottle. The bottle. Porthos. Aramis.</p>
<p>Aramis gave him the tiniest nod and Athos surged forward.</p>
<p>The glass so cool, so smooth under his hands. His hands so steady now. He unstopped the bottle. Breathed in. So good. So, so good. His salvation. Liquid forgetfulness, liquid peace…</p>
<p>He looked up. He shouldn’t.</p>
<p>Aramis turned away and scrubbed his hands across his face.</p>
<p>Athos looked at Porthos instead.</p>
<p>The smell… It filled his mind, occupied his thoughts… he had to… but…</p>
<p>“No drinking alone,” Porthos said. “Like you said, you’re your own man. We’re not telling you that you can’t drink. Not even telling you when to stop. But we can make sure you’re safe.”</p>
<p>Athos didn’t know… His eyes flitted to Aramis who grimaced. “No more finding you senseless. No more… thinking you’re dead.”</p>
<p>Athos nodded. That was… there was a thought, an emotion, but he couldn’t capture it. The wine…</p>
<p>“Do it.”</p>
<p>Athos did before Aramis could change his mind. He drank, drank deeply, poured all that sweet nothing into his gullet before anyone could tell him otherwise.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*****</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Careful.”</p>
<p>“I’m being bloody careful.” Porthos paused to catch his breath. “Never knew I use my back for walking down the stairs.”</p>
<p>For all his grousing, he couldn’t quite hide his smile. He was up, he was walking on his own with Athos and Aramis hovering nearby, but not interfering.</p>
<p>“He’s here!” Hugo raced into the house. He slipped on the freshly polished floor and Athos barely managed to catch him by the shoulder and haul him upright.</p>
<p>“He’s just crossed the bridge, Cap—Athos.” The boy’s eyes were glinting in his bright red face.</p>
<p>Above them on the stairs, Aramis chuckled. “Go. We’ll be right behind.”</p>
<p>His fingers gently traced along Porthos’ arm. Porthos grinned. “Don’t let me spoil your moment.”</p>
<p>Athos shook his head. Never. Not his moment. Theirs. He could tell they saw his protestations and were amused by them, so he decided not to voice them, but steered the boy outside, keeping an iron grip on his shoulder to keep him from running.</p>
<p>The gathered men parted to let him step down the stairs as Captain Tréville rode through the gate, followed closely by three other musketeers. Their dark horses were grey with the dust of the sun-baked roads, but despite the heat their blue cloaks were billowing around the men.</p>
<p>Captain Tréville swept his aside dramatically as he dismounted and jogged up the steps with the vigour of a younger man. He grabbed both of Athos’ arms and shook him. For a moment, they looked at each other. Athos swallowed back all the things he could have said and focussed on the sheer joy in his captain’s eyes.</p>
<p>“We made it,” Captain Tréville said, softly, just for him. His eyes skittered over Athos’ shoulder and his smile widened. They were there, then, right behind him like they’d said. Athos allowed himself a small smile of his own.</p>
<p>“Peace has been declared at Alès,” Captain Tréville shouted, wheeling around to face the men. “The war is over!”</p>
<p>“The war is over,” Porthos’ voice boomed over the murmurs as those at the front passed the message further along. A wave of cheers rippled out, away from the house and across the yard. Further and further as far as Athos could see, men were throwing hands and hats in the air, embracing friends and strangers alike. Shouts of “Long live the King” spread and grew.</p>
<p>Athos turned to look at his friends. They stood on the threshold, as close as two people could be, Aramis moulding his body to Porthos’s side as Porthos draped his arm over his shoulder, ostensibly to support himself. They were laughing and Athos let himself be swept up in that great sea of joy. He stepped closer and threw his arms around them both.</p>
<p>“Peace,” he whispered as they drew him into a crushing embrace.</p>
<p>Peace was rather raucous. Singing and cheering and so many questions, all directed at Captain Tréville. Alès had fallen quickly though after an intense siege and the Duc de Rohan had submitted at last. Those scant details were repeated so often they grew and morphed into tales of grandeur and heroism.</p>
<p>The three of them were separated by men, many of them still nursing injuries. As Athos tried to look over their heads to catch a glimpse of his friends, the reminder of their last separation was stark. Separated once more, still in Privas, which had brought them so much pain. But it wasn’t that. This was a sunlit, joyous affair full of laughter and cheers, not at all reminiscent of the screams of pain and the explosions of some weeks ago.</p>
<p>All that was in the past now, the Huguenots finally and decisively defeated, their leaders dead or scattered to foreign lands. The main danger now came in bottles, which Athos dodged expertly. He was technically under observation so would not be falling foul of his word, but he could recognise the jeopardy he’d be in if he drank to every toast that was offered. To king, country, and cardinal. They drank, they cheered, they sang. Athos drifted. He agreed where needed, nodded his encouragement, and above all strove to be too boring to hold anyone’s interest for long.</p>
<p>Captain Tréville was the man they turned to now, the one who was expected to have the answers, to intuit their needs and meet them. No matter their regiment, the men were drawn to him. Already, the stories of his achievements were multiplying in the crowd, the charismatic captain of the musketeers, the king’s confidante, the honest man that inspired loyalty where the cardinal sparked only fear. Being passed from one mouth to the next, the legends about him sprouted arms and legs and wings, becoming all but unrecognisable.</p>
<p>“Doesn’t it bother you?” Athos asked when they found themselves to the side of the tumult, undisturbed for a moment.</p>
<p> “It’s good for morale.” Captain Tréville smiled. “And in some it inspires a greater sense of duty and obedience.”</p>
<p>“Some of these stories are clearly nowhere close to the truth.”</p>
<p>“Do let me know if there’s rumours that I’ve slain a dragon. After my little escapade today, Richelieu will be more eager than usual to burn me for witchcraft and heresy.”</p>
<p>Captain Tréville patted him on the back before he was swept away by a tide of men to recount, once again, what little he had already told them about Alès. The version without dragons and miracles, but with all his usual cunning and skill and leadership that would live long in men’s minds, if not on their tongues.</p>
<p>Athos found himself quite superfluous, which was not an undesirable feeling after those past few weeks. Many had called him captain by mistake, but they all recognised the true holder of that title now. Athos became just that again. Athos, a musketeer like any other.</p>
<p>He got a chance to speak to the musketeers who had returned with Captain Tréville. He did not hold them back from their well-earned celebrations for too long. They had ridden hard to get back to Privas ahead of the regiment, which would pass by on its way back to Paris. Richelieu would raze the fortifications of any remaining Huguenot strongholds, but King Louis had tired of campaigning now that the peace was signed.</p>
<p>Aramis, despite having played no part in the treaty or the final siege, commanded a rather significant crowd. Athos spotted his hat bobbing somewhere close to the well, too far away to catch any of his undoubtedly spellbinding tales. Although he usually stood out in a crowd, Porthos was nowhere to be seen. Athos walked around the perimeter for a bit before he spotted him, sitting alone on a bench.</p>
<p>What was wrong? While Porthos wasn’t as much of a socialite as Aramis, he never shunned an opportunity to celebrate. And surely there was much to celebrate for him now. Unless…</p>
<p>Porthos smiled at him as he approached and gave him a small wave. But behind that friendly face… Was that pain in his eyes? His back had healed, but maybe not well enough for this.</p>
<p>Athos nodded at him. “Such a grand occasion.”</p>
<p>“Been a long time coming.”</p>
<p>“Are you…?”</p>
<p>“Seven years. Took me seven years of fighting to finally get here.”</p>
<p>“Your wound, is it…?”</p>
<p>Porthos blinked up at him. “It’s alright. Bit sore, but more like a bruise.”</p>
<p>He patted the bench and Athos sat, grateful for something to do that didn’t require him to be in the midst of a throng of people. They sat in silence while all around them men cheered and spoke and sang. Something unfurled inside of Athos and he breathed more deeply than he had in a long time. It hadn’t been seven years for him, but Porthos was right, the peace and this celebration had indeed been a long time coming.</p>
<p>Porthos stretched his legs out and sighed. “Seeing them ride in like that, the captain and them, but not the whole regiment… was a bit like when he arrived at the garrison after Savoy.”</p>
<p>Athos’ tranquil contemplations on peace and revelry shuddered to a standstill. He hadn’t expected Savoy. Of all the things… not that, not today. But of course it lay no further in the past than his own recently resurrected demons.</p>
<p>“I mean, he’s happy and all.” Porthos waved a hand vaguely in Aramis’ direction. “Just seeing Tréville like that… He was all dusty back then as well, all grey.”</p>
<p>Athos wasn’t sure if Porthos desired interruption. At any rate, he had no idea what to say. Fortunately, Porthos continued a moment later.</p>
<p>“He rides in and he’s got news… but today it’s all good and back then… he carried this tiny little bundle. All blankets until that hand falls out…” He sighed. “And look at him now.”</p>
<p>Athos was certain he didn’t mean Captain Tréville.</p>
<p>Look at him now… It was hard to imagine that little bundle of a man now, given the big, vivacious personality in front of them. Occasionally, Aramis’ eyes would skitter across the heads of his captive audience and lock on Porthos for a moment, as if to reassure himself.</p>
<p>Reassure himself he wouldn’t lose his friends. Again.</p>
<p>Aramis had no reason to be reminded of Savoy. He retained no memory of his return to Paris at all. Athos never quite understood what Aramis did remember and how what little he did seem to recall had such a profound effect on him. But those tiny glances were the final piece slotting into a complex mechanism. Suddenly it made sense. He remembered the loss. The feeling of having lost everyone, even himself.</p>
<p>“They love him,” he said, as if to reassure Aramis he wasn’t alone.</p>
<p>“And he loves to be loved.” Porthos chuckled softly.</p>
<p>“He works hard for it.” Because just watching him felt exhausting. All that conversation, all those different personalities to handle and to satisfy, all the roles he took on…</p>
<p>“Don’t tell him that. His head’s big enough as it is,” Porthos said and started to tell some humorous anecdote, but Athos didn’t listen. Aramis looked at them again and despite the distance, the warmth in his eyes was striking. A longing almost, but also a relief.</p>
<p>Aramis, always the entertainer, made to return to his conversation. He did indeed love to be loved. His adoring audience would excite him, would make this a day worthy of the momentous occasion. To Athos’ surprise, Aramis paused. Athos noticed that Porthos was beckoning him over to where they were sitting. In an instant, Aramis made his apologies and strode towards them. Porthos seemed all right, not in pain, not distressed in any way. And Athos could say with certainty that he had not made a fool of himself for once, had not done anything that would require Aramis’ attention. But Aramis’ curt goodbye to the men he had been conversing with and his determined approach made it seem like he was duty-bound to attend to them that very instant, as if he had commanded to. As if Porthos was in charge of him.</p>
<p>Which was evidently nonsense. Not that Porthos… he was capable, no doubt about that. But he wasn’t… and Aramis would never…</p>
<p>Porthos shuffled over so Aramis could perch on the end of the bench. Aramis stretched his back and leaned against Porthos’ shoulder. Neither displayed any alarm or concern. On the contrary, Aramis sighed contentedly as he blinked into the sun and Porthos teased him about becoming more cat-like by the day.</p>
<p>“Better?” Porthos asked.</p>
<p>“Much better,” Aramis said.</p>
<p>And he looked it. He’d seemed well enough in the crowd, but now Athos could see how drained he looked, how much happier he was away from the centre of attention, here on the periphery with them.</p>
<p>Porthos had not only known that in advance, but he had silently ordered Aramis to do something about it. Even though he held no command, had no power over Aramis, not in terms of their rather loose hierarchy within the regiment and certainly not by seniority. But then again, Athos had joined later than either of them and he… By rights it should have been Aramis. But it wasn’t. Not unless there was truly no alternative.</p>
<p>“Why do you shun command?” Athos asked before he could think any better of it.</p>
<p>Aramis stretched luxuriously and laughed. “I can’t even make up my mind about joining you without Porthos telling me to. I’d be a terrible commander.”</p>
<p>Porthos chuckled good-naturedly, but made no comment.</p>
<p>The lack of teasing was at odds with Aramis’ light-hearted riposte. Athos shifted in his seat as if the slight movement could make the pieces slot into place.</p>
<p>“Given you were one of the first musketeers, surely…” Surely what? He did not mean to criticise, merely to sate his curiosity about the odd dynamic he had observed.</p>
<p>Porthos slung his arm around Aramis hips, keeping him in place on the narrow bench.</p>
<p>Minutes passed as Athos attempted in vain to formulate the question he wanted to ask. Eventually, Aramis took pity on him.</p>
<p>“Tréville had his eye on me early on,” he said. “Groomed me for command for a bit, but he’s accepted that I’ve lost interest in it.”</p>
<p><em>Since Savoy</em> remained unsaid, but hung heavily in the air.</p>
<p>Athos should have known. Why had he questioned it? Aramis was the way he was because of the things he had… there had been no need to bring it up. No need to add insult to injury now even though he yearned to ask…</p>
<p>“Of course, I accept that,” he said instead.</p>
<p>“You can ask,” Aramis said since apparently Athos was as transparent as windowpanes.</p>
<p>“I would not wish to be impertinent.”</p>
<p>“I don’t have to answer. But please, ask.”</p>
<p>Athos swallowed around the lump in his throat that appeared every time they spoke about the past before the three of them had met. “You weren’t in command at …?”</p>
<p>Because that would explain it. His reluctance, his down-right refusal. Of course, if he… it would be plausible.</p>
<p>“I wasn’t.” Aramis sighed and Athos regretted that he had asked. “It was…”</p>
<p>Porthos wrapped both arms around him and folded his hands on Aramis’ stomach. “Lazare,” he said.</p>
<p>“Ah yes.” Aramis rested his own hands on Porthos’. With every word Athos could hear him claw his way back into the present. “The thought of being in charge of people and failing to spot danger petrifies me nonetheless. The fear of not being good enough and being responsible for their deaths.”</p>
<p>“You were not. Nobody could have foreseen the Spanish—”</p>
<p>“I know.”</p>
<p>“Thank you. I appreciate your candour.”</p>
<p>And more than that, he appreciated the immense trust Aramis had shown him talking about this, mentioning what many would have perceived as a great weakness. For a man of his standing and talent to be petrified of command was no small thing. His words rang true. In the early days, when Captain Tréville had put Aramis in charge of them when they rode out together, Aramis had always been exceptionally nervous. That incident with the ambush on the road… the old scar on Athos’ leg itched as he remembered how badly Aramis’ hands had shaken.</p>
<p>“What about medicine?” Despite his limitations, Aramis had still talked Porthos through saving Athos’ life. And surely… just remembering the past few weeks and all those operations… “Isn’t there even more responsibility in that?”</p>
<p>“There is. But… If a man is so badly injured he needs my help, he’ll probably die. Every one I save is a victory. Command is the other way around. The assumption is that people live.”</p>
<p>Which wasn’t the king’s assumption and certainly not the cardinal’s. Possibly not even Captain Tréville’s, who, despite the deep and enduring love he held for his men, put France above all other loyalties. This was Aramis’ measure for himself, each death a mark upon his soul.</p>
<p>Aramis’ fury, Aramis shouting his name and slapping his face… finding him senseless in his room, that first deep mark etched into him the very moment he inherited command, knowing that others were likely to follow, that the chisel was already poised to carve Porthos’ demise into his heart. In that moment, Aramis took on much more than the responsibility for keeping the men fed and disciplined.</p>
<p>“I apologise for the pain I caused.”</p>
<p>Aramis gave him a soft smile. “It’s fine.”</p>
<p>“It wasn’t.”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>That one syllable dropped like a stone into Athos’ stomach. It was good that Aramis did not feel the need to pretend, to lie to make him feel better, but it still stung.</p>
<p>“I shall never thrust command upon you again.”</p>
<p>“Don’t say that.”</p>
<p>“Why not?”</p>
<p>“I will always take it when necessary. As will Porthos.”</p>
<p>Porthos looked abashed and mumbled something about how that wouldn’t be necessary.</p>
<p>Aramis gently stroked his arm. “Having no desire for command does not mean we would ever shirk our duty to France and the regiment. And we will always support you in any way you need.”</p>
<p>
  <em>But don’t create that need artificially. </em>
</p>
<p>Which he had done and shouldn’t have. If only he…</p>
<p>“That’s in the past now,” Porthos said. “We’re here now, there’s peace, and we deserve a drink, all of us.”</p>
<p>Athos went to fetch wine. He owed them that small service. He regarded the bottle in his hands curiously as he walked back towards them. He felt no desire to drain it on his own. There was nothing here now that he wished to drown and forget. These were moments he wished to commit to memory unsullied by the fog of wine.</p>
<p>Their celebration wasn’t the raucous one of the other men. They sat quietly, speaking little, but thinking much of this war that had shaped them, had made them who they were, had brought them together, even as it cut them apart inside and out.</p>
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